THE      PROVINCIAL    AMERICAN     AND     OTHER 

PAPERS. 
A  HOOSIER  CHRONICLE.     With  illustrations. 

THE   SIEGE  OF  THE  SEVEN   SUITORS.    With 
illustrations. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NBW  YORK 


The  Provincial  American 


The  Provincial  American 

And  Other  Papers 

By 
Meredith  Nicholson 


Boston  and  New  York 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

1912 


COPYRIGHT,    1912,    BY    MEREDITH    NICHOLSON 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  October 


To 
George  Edward  Woodberry 

Guide,  Counselor 
And  the  most  inspiring  of  Friends 

This  Volume  is  Dedicated 

With  grateful  and  affectionate 

Regard 


Indianapolis,  September  1912. 


250628 


Contents 

THE  PROVINCIAL  AMERICAN             •  .  .       i 

EDWARD  EGGLESTON        .         .         •  •  •     33 

A  PROVINCIAL  CAPITAL  .         .         .  •  •     55 

EXPERIENCE  AND  THE  CALENDAR     .  *  .89 

SHOULD  SMITH  GO  TO  CHURCH?      .  .  .115 

THE  TIRED  BUSINESS  MAN     .         .  .  .  159 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  MISCHIEF:  A  DIALOGUE  .   187 

CONFESSIONS  OF  A  "BEST-SELLER"  .  .  .  205 

These  papers,  with  one  exception,  have  appeared  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.  A  part  of  "Experience  and  the  Calendar,"  under 
another  title,  was  published  in  the  Reader  Magazine. 


The  Provincial  American 
And  Other  Papers 


The  Provincial  American 

Viola.  What  country,  friends,  is  this? 
Captain.  This  is  Illyria,  lady. 

Viola.  And  what  should  I  do  in  Illyria? 
My  brother  he  is  in  Elysium. 

Twelfth  Night. 

1AM  a  provincial  American.  My  forebears 
were  farmers  or  country-town  folk.  They 
followed  the  long  trail  over  the  mountains  out 
of  Virginia  and  North  Carolina,  with  brief  so 
journs  in  western  Pennsylvania  and  Kentucky. 
My  parents  were  born,  the  one  in  Kentucky, 
the  other  in  Indiana,  within  two  and  four  hours 
of  the  spot  where  I  pen  these  reflections,  and  I 
had  voted  before  I  saw  the  sea  or  any  Eastern 
city. 

;In  attempting  to  illustrate  the  provincial 
)oint  of  view  out  of  my  own  experiences  I  am 
noved  by  no  wish  to  celebrate   either  the 
loosier  commonwealth — which  has  not  lacked 
nobler  advertisement  —  or  myself;  but  by  the 
hope  that  I  may  cheer  many  who,  flung  by  fate 
upon  the  world's  byways,  shuffle  and  shrink 

3 


The  Provincial  American 

under    the    reproach    of    their    metropolitan 
brethren. 

Mr.  George  Ade  has  said,  speaking  of  our 
fresh-water  colleges,  that  Purdue  University,  his 
own  alma  mater,  offers  everything  that  Harvard 
provides  except  the  sound  of  a  as  in  "  father." 
I  have  been  told  that  I  speak  our  lingua  rustica 
only  slightly  corrupted  by  urban  contacts. 
Anywhere  east  of  Buffalo  I  should  be  known  as 
a  Westerner;  I  could  not  disguise  myself  if  I 
would.  I  find  that  I  am  most  comfortable  in  a 
town  whose  population  does  not  exceed  a  fifth 
of  a  million,  —  a  place  in  which  men  may  re 
linquish  their  seats  in  the  street  car  to  women 
without  having  their  motives  questioned,  and 
where  one  calls  the  stamp-clerk  at  the  post- 
office  by  his  first  name. 

I 

Across  a  hill-slope  that  knew  my  childhood,  a 
bugle's  grieving  melody  used  to  float  often 
through  the  summer  twilight.  A  highway  lay 
hidden  in  the  little  vale  below,  and  beyond  it  the 
unknown  musician  was  quite  concealed,  and 
was  never  visible  to  the  world  I  knew.  Those 

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The  Provincial  American 

trumpetings  have  lingered  always  in  my  mem 
ory,  and  color  my  recollections  of  all  that  was 
near  and  dear  in  those  days.  Men  who  had  left 
camp  and  field  for  the  soberer  routine  of  civil 
life  were  not  yet  fully  domesticated.  My  bugler 
was  merely  solacing  himself  for  lost  joys  by 
recurring  to  the  vocabulary  of  the  trumpet.  I 
am  confident  that  he  enjoyed  himself;  and  I  am 
equally  sure  that  his  trumpetings  peopled  the 
dusk  for  me  with  great  captains  and  mighty 
armies,  and  touched  with  a  certain  militancy  all 
my  youthful  dreaming. 

No  American  boy  born  during  or  immedi 
ately  after  the  Civil  War  can  have  escaped  in 
those  years  the  vivid  impressions  derived  from 
the  sight  and  speech  of  men  who  had  fought  its 
battles,  or  women  who  had  known  its  terror  and 
grief.  Chief  among  my  playthings  on  that 
peaceful  hillside  was  the  sword  my  father  had 
borne  at  Shiloh  and  on  to  the  sea ;  and  I  remem 
ber,  too,  his  uniform  coat  and  sash  and  epaulets 
and  the  tattered  guidon  of  his  battery,  that, 
falling  to  my  lot  as  toys,  yet  imparted  to  my 
childish  consciousness  a  sense  of  what  war  had 
been.  The  young  imagination  was  kindled  in 

s 


The  Provincial  American 

those  days  by  many  and  great  names.  Lincoln, 
Grant,  and  Sherman  were  among  the  first  lisp- 
ings  of  Northern  children  of  my  generation;  and 
in  the  little  town  where  I  was  born  lived  men 
who  had  spoken  with  them  face  to  face.  I  did 
not  know,  until  I  sought  them  later  for  myself, 
the  fairy-tales  that  are  every  child's  birthright; 
and  I  imagine  that  children  of  my  generation 
heard  less  of 

"old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago,"  — 

and  more  of  the  men  and  incidents  of  contem 
poraneous  history.  Great  spirits  still  on  earth 
were  sojourning.  I  saw  several  times,  in  his  last 
years,  the  iron-willed  Hoosier  War  Governor, 
Oliver  P.  Morton.  By  the  time  I  was  ten,  a 
broader  field  of  observation  opening  through 
my  parents'  removal  to  the  state  capital,  I  had 
myself  beheld  Grant  and  Sherman;  and  every 
day  I  passed  in  the  street  men  who  had  been 
partners  with  them  in  the  great,  heroic,  sad, 
splendid  struggle.  These  things  I  set  down  as 
a  background  for  the  observations  that  follow, 
—  less  as  text  than  as  point  of  departure;  yet  I 

6 


The  Provincial  American 

believe  that  bugler,  sounding  "  charge  "  and 
"  retreat  "  and  "  taps  "  in  the  dusk,  and  those 
trappings  of  war  beneath  whose  weight  I  strutted 
upon  that  hillside,  did  much  toward  establishing 
in  me  a  certain  habit  of  mind.  From  that  hill 
side  I  have  since  ineluctably  viewed  my  coun 
try  and  my  countrymen  and  the  larger  world. 

Emerson  records  Thoreau's  belief  that  "the 
flora  of  Massachusetts  embraced  almost  all 
the  important  plants  of  America,  —  most  of 
the  oaks,  most  of  the  willows,  the  best  pines, 
the  ash,  the  maple,  the  beech,  the  nuts.  He 
returned  Kane's  '  Arctic  Voyage '  to  a  friend 
of  whom  he  had  borrowed  it,  with  the  remark 
that  most  of  the  phenomena  noted  might  be 
observed  in  Concord." 

The  complacency  of  the  provincial  mind  is 
due  less,  I  believe,  to  stupidity  and  ignorance, 
than  to  the  fact  that  every  American  county  is 
in  a  sense  complete,  a  political  and  social  unit, 
in  which  the  sovereign  rights  of  a  free  people  are 
expressed  by  the  court-house  and  town  hall, 
spiritual  freedom  by  the  village  church-spire, 
and  hope  and  aspiration  in  the  school-house. 
Every  reader  of  American  fiction,  particularly 

7 


The  Provincial  American 

in  the  realm  of  the  short  story,  must  have  ob 
served  the  great  variety  of  quaint  and  racy 
characters  disclosed.  These  are  the  dramatis 
personcBoi  that  great  American  novel  which  some 
one  has  said  is  being  written  in  installments. 
Writers  of  fiction  hear  constantly  of  characters 
who  would  be  well  worth  their  study.  In  read 
ing  two  recent  novels  that  penetrate  to  the  heart 
of  provincial  life,  Mr.  White's  "A  Certain  Rich 
Man"  and  Mrs.  Watts's  "Nathan  Burke,"  I 
felt  that  the  characters  depicted  might,  with 
unimportant  exceptions,  have  been  found  al 
most  anywhere  in  those  American  States  that 
shared  the  common  history  of  Kansas  and 
Ohio.  Mr.  Winston  Churchill,  in  his  admirable 
novels  of  New  England,  has  shown  how  closely 
the  purely  local  is  allied  to  the  universal. 

When  "David  Harum"  appeared,  characters 
similar  to  the  hero  of  that  novel  were  reported 
in  every  part  of  the  country.  I  rarely  visit  a 
town  that  has  not  its  cracker-barrel  philosopher, 
or  a  poet  who  would  shine  but  for  the  callous 
heart  of  the  magazine  editor,  or  an  artist  of  su 
preme  though  unrecognized  talent,  or  a  forensic 
orator  of  wonderful  powers,  or  a  mechanical 

8 


The  Provincial  American 

genius  whose  inventions  are  bound  to  revolu 
tionize  the  industrial  world.  In  Maine,  in  the 
back  room  of  a  shop  whose  windows  looked 
down  upon  a  tidal  river,  I  have  listened  to  tariff 
discussions  in  the  dialect  of  Hosea  Biglow;  and 
a  few  weeks  later  have  heard  farmers  along  the 
un-salt  Wabash  debating  the  same  questions 
from  a  point  of  view  that  revealed  no  masted 
ships  or  pine  woods,  with  a  new  sense  of  the  fine 
tolerance  and  sanity  and  reasonableness  of  our 
American  people.  Mr.  James  Whitcomb  Riley, 
one  of  our  shrewdest  students  of  provincial  char 
acter,  introduced  me  one  day  to  a  friend  of  his 
in  a  village  near  Indianapolis  who  bore  a  strik 
ing  resemblance  to  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  who 
had  something  of  Lincoln's  gift  for  humorous 
narration.  This  man  kept  a  country  store,  and 
his  attitude  toward  his  customers,  and  "trade" 
in  general,  was  delicious  in  its  drollery.  Men 
said  to  be  "like  Lincoln"  have  not  been  rare  in 
the  Mississippi  Valley,  and  politicians  have  been 
known  to  encourage  belief  in  the  resemblance. 
Colonel  Higginson  once  said  that  in  the  Cam 
bridge  of  his  youth  any  member  of  the  Harvard 
faculty  could  answer  any  question  within  the 

9 


The  Provincial  American 

range  of  human  knowledge;  whereas  in  these 
days  of  specialization  some  man  can  answer  the 
question,  but  it  may  take  a  week's  investigation 
to  find  him.  In  "our  town "  —  "  a  poor  virgin, 
sir,  an  ill-favored  thing,  sir,  but  mine  own! "  — 
I  dare  say  it  was  possible  in  that  post-bellum  era 
to  find  men  competent  to  deal  with  almost  any 
problem.  These  were  mainly  men  of  humble 
beginnings  and  all  essentially  the  product  of  our 
American  provinces.  I  should  like  to  set  down 
briefly  the  ineffaceable  impression  some  of 
these  characters  left  upon  me.  I  am  precluded 
by  a  variety  of  considerations  from  extending 
this  recital.  The  rich  field  of  education  I  ignore 
altogether;  and  I  may  mention  only  those  who 
have  gone.  As  it  is  beside  my  purpose  to  prove 
that  mine  own  people  are  other  than  typical  of 
those  of  most  American  communities,  I  check 
my  exuberance.  Sad,  indeed,  the  offending  if  I 
should  protest  too  much ! 

ii 

In  the  days  when  the  bugle  still  mourned 
across  the  vale,  Lew  Wallace  was  a  citizen  of 
my  native  town  of  Crawfordsville.  There  he 

10 


The  Provincial  American 

had  amused  himself,  in  the  years  immediately 
before  the  civil  conflict,  in  drilling  a  company  of 
"Algerian  Zouaves"  known  as  the  "Mont 
gomery  Guards,"  of  which  my  father  was  a 
member,  and  this  was  the  nucleus  of  the  Elev 
enth  Indiana  Regiment  which  Wallace  com 
manded  in  the  early  months  of  the  war.  It  is 
not,  however,  of  Wallace's  military  services 
that  I  wish  to  speak  now,  nor  of  his  writings, 
but  of  the  man  himself  as  I  knew  him  later 
at  the  capital,  at  a  time  when,  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  the  federal  building  at  Indianapolis,  any 
boy  might  satisfy  his  longing  for  heroes  with  a 
sight  of  many  of  ourHoosier  Olympians.  He  was 
of  medium  height,  erect,  dark  to  swarthiness, 
with  finely  chiseled  features  and  keen  black  eyes, 
with  manners  the  most  courtly,  and  a  voice 
unusually  musical  and  haunting.  His  appear 
ance,  his  tastes,  his  manner,  were  strikingly 
Oriental. 

He  had  a  strong  theatric  instinct,  and  his  life 
was  filled  with  drama  —  with  melodrama,  even. 
His  curiosity  led  him  into  the  study  of  many 
subjects,  most  of  them  remote  from  the  affairs 
of  his  day.  He  was  both  dreamer  and  man  of 

II 


The  Provincial  American 

action;  he  could  be  "idler  than  the  idlest 
flowers,"  yet  his  occupations  were  many  and 
various.  He  was  an  aristocrat  and  a  democrat; 
he  was  wise  and  temperate,  whimsical  and  inju 
dicious  in  a  breath.  As  a  youth  he  had  seen 
visions,  and  as  an  old  man  he  dreamed  dreams. 
The  mysticism  in  him  was  deep-planted,  and 
he  was  always  a  little  aloof,  a  man  apart.  His 
capacity  for  detachment  was  like  that  of  Sir 
Richard  Burton,  who,  at  a  great  company  given 
in  his  honor,  was  found  alone  poring  over  a  puz 
zling  Arabic  manuscript  in  an  obscure  corner  of 
the  house.  Wallace,  like  Burton,  would  have 
reached  Mecca,  if  chance  had  led  him  to  that 
adventure. 

Wallace  dabbled  in  politics  without  ever 
being  a  politician;  and  I  might  add  that  he 
practiced  law  without  ever  being,  by  any  high 
standard,  a  lawyer.  He  once  spoke  of  the  law  as 
"that  most  detestable  of  human  occupations." 
First  and  last  he  tried  his  hand  at  all  the  arts. 
He  painted  a  little;  he  moulded  a  little  in  clay; 
he  knew  something  of  music  and  played  the 
violin;  he  made  three  essays  in  romance.  As 
boy  and  man  he  went  soldiering;  he  was  a  civil 

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The  Provincial  American 

governor,  and  later  a  minister  to  Turkey.  In 
view  of  his  sympathetic  interest  in  Eastern  life 
and  character,  nothing  could  have  been  more 
appropriate  than  his  appointment  to  Constanti 
nople.  The  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid,  harassed  and 
anxious,  used  to  send  for  him  at  odd  hours  of 
the  night  to  come  and  talk  to  him,  and  offered 
him  on  his  retirement  a  number  of  positions  in 
the  Turkish  Government. 

With  all  this  rich  experience  of  the  larger 
world,  he  remained  the  simplest  of  natures.  He 
was  as  interested  in  a  new  fishing-tackle  as  in  a 
new  book,  and  carried  both  to  his  houseboat  on 
the  Kankakee,  where,  at  odd  moments,  he  re 
touched  a  manuscript  for  the  press,  or  dis 
cussed  politics  with  the  natives.  Here  was  a 
man  who  could  talk  of  the  "  Song  of  Roland  "  as 
zestfully  as  though  it  had  just  been  reported 
from  the  telegraph-office. 

I  frankly  confess  that  I  never  met  him  with 
out  a  thrill,  even  in  his  last  years  and  when  the 
ardor  of  my  youthful  hero-worship  may  be  said 
to  have  passed.  He  was  an  exotic,  our  Hoosier 
Arab,  our  story-teller  of  the  bazaars.  When 
I  saw  him  in  his  last  illness,  it  was  as  though 

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The  Provincial  American 

I  looked  upon  a  gray  sheik  about  to  fare  forth 
unawed  toward  unmapped  oases. 

No  lesson  of  the  Civil  War  was  more  striking 
than  that  taught  by  the  swift  transitions  of  our 
citizen  soldiery  from  civil  to  military  life,  and 
back  again.  This  impressed  me  as  a  boy,  and  I 
used  to  wonder,  as  I  passed  my  heroes  on  their 
peaceful  errands  in  the  street,  why  they  had  put 
down  the  sword  when  there  must  still  be  work 
somewhere  for  fighting  men  to  do.  The  judge 
of  the  federal  court  at  this  time  was  Walter  Q. 
Gresham,  brevetted  brigadier-general,  who  was 
destined  later  to  adorn  the  Cabinets  of  Pre 
sidents  of  two  political  parties.  He  was  cordial 
and  magnetic;  his  were  the  handsomest  and 
friendliest  of  brown  eyes,  and  a  noble  gravity 
spoke  in  them.  Among  the  lawyers  who  prac 
ticed  before  him  were  Benjamin  Harrison  and 
Thomas  A.  Hendricks,  who  became  respect 
ively  President  and  Vice-President. 

Those  Hoosiers  who  admired  Gresham  ar 
dently  were  often  less  devotedly  attached  to 
Harrison,  who  lacked  Gresham's  warmth  and 
charm.  General  Harrison  was  akin  to  the 
Covenanters  who  bore  both  Bible  and  sword 


The  Provincial  American 

into  battle.  His  eminence  in  the  law  was  due  to 
his  deep  learning  in  its  history  and  philosophy. 
Short  of  stature,  and  without  grace  of  person, 
—  with  a  voice  pitched  rather  high,  —  he  was  a 
remarkably  interesting  and  persuasive  speaker. 
If  I  may  so  put  it,  his  political  speeches  were 
addressed  as  to  a  trial  judge  rather  than  to  a 
jury,  his  appeal  being  to  reason  and  not  to  pas 
sion  or  preju&ce.  He  cpuld,  in  rapid  flights  of 
campaigning,^)eak  to  many  audiences  in  a  day 
without  repeating  himself.  He  was  measured 
and  urbane;  his  discourses  abounded  in  apt 
illustrations;  he  was  never  dull.  He  never 
stooped  to  pietistic  clap-trap,  or  chanted  the 
jaunty  chauvinism  that  has  so  often  caused  the 
Hoosier  stars  to  blink. 

Among  the  Democratic  leaders  of  that  pe 
riod,  Hendricks  was  one  of  the  ablest,  and  a 
man  of  many  attractive  qualities.  His  dignity 
was  always  impressive,  and  his  appearance  sug 
gested  the  statesman  of  an  earlier  time.  It  is 
one  of  immortality's  harsh  ironies  that  a  man 
who  was  a  gentleman,  and  who  stood  moreover 
pretty  squarely  for  the  policies  that  it  pleased 
him  to  defend,  should  be  published  to  the  world 

IS 


The  Provincial  American 

in  a  bronze  effigy  in  his  own  city  as  a  bandy 
legged  and  tottering  tramp,  in  a  frock  coat  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

Joseph  E.  McDonald,  a  Senator  in  Congress, 
was  held  in  affectionate  regard  by  a  wide  con 
stituency.  He  was  an  independent  and  vigorous 
character  who  never  lost  a  certain  raciness  and 
tang.  On  my  first  timid  venture  into  the  fabled 
East  I  rode  with  him  in  a  ^y-coach  from 
Washington  to  New  York  on  a  slow  train.  At 
some  point  he  saw  a  peddler  of  fried  oysters  on  a 
station  platform,  alighted  to  make  a  purchase, 
and  ate  his  luncheon  quite  democratically  from 
the  paper  parcel  in  his  car  seat.  He  convoyed 
me  across  the  ferry,  asked  where  I  expected  to 
stop,  and  explained  that  he  did  not  care  for 
the  European  plan  himself;  he  liked,  he  said, 
to  have  "full  swing  at  a  bill  of  fare." 

I  used  often  to  look  upon  the  towering  form 
of  Daniel  W.  Voorhees,  whom  Sulgrove,  an 
Indiana  journalist  with  a  gift  for  translating 
Macaulay  into  Hoosierese,  had  named  "The 
Tall  Sycamore  of  the  Wabash."  In  a  crowded 
hotel  lobby  I  can  still  see  him,  cloaked  and  silk- 
hatted,  the  centre  of  the  throng,  and  my  strict 

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The  Provincial  American 

upbringing  in  the  antagonistic  political  faith  did 
not  diminish  my  admiration  for  his  eloquence. 

Such  were  some  of  the  characters  who  came 
and  went  in  the  streets  of  our  provincial  capital 
in  those  days. 

in 

In  discussions  under  captions  similar  to  mine 
it  is  often  maintained  that  railways,  telegraphs, 
telephones,  and  newspapers  are  so  knitting  us 
together,  that  soon  we  shall  all  be  keyed  to  a 
metropolitan  pitch.  The  proof  adduced  in  sup 
port  of  this  is  the  most  trivial,  but  it  strikes 
me  as  wholly  undesirable  that  we  should  all  be 
ironed  out  and  conventionalized.  In  the  matter 
of  dress,  for  example,  the  women  of  our  town 
used  to  take  their  fashions  from  "Godey's"  and 
"Peterson's"  via  Cincinnati;  but  now  that  we 
are  only  eighteen  hours  from  New  York,  with 
a  well-traveled  path  from  the  Wabash  to  Paris, 
my  counselors  among  the  elders  declare  that 
the  tone  of  our  society  —  if  I  may  use  so  peril 
ous  a  word  —  has  changed  little  from  our  good 
old  black  alpaca  days.  The  hobble  skirt  re 
ceives  prompt  consideration  in  the  "Main" 
street  of  any  town,  and  is  viewed  with  frank 

17 


The  Provincial  American 

curiosity,  but  it  is  only  a  one  day's  wonder.  A 
lively  runaway  or  the  barbaric  yawp  of  a  new 
street  fakir  may  dethrone  it  at  any  time. 

New  York  and  Boston  tailors  solicit  custom 
among  us  semi-annually,  but  nothing  is  so  stub 
born  as  our  provincial  distrust  of  fine  raiment.  I 
looked  with  awe,  in  my  boyhood,  upon  a  pair  of 
mammoth  blue-jeans  trousers  that  were  flung 
high  from  a  flagstaff  in  the  centre  of  Indianapo 
lis,  in  derision  of  a  Democratic  candidate  for 
governor,  James  D.  Williams,  who  was  addicted 
to  the  wearing  of  jeans.  The  Democrats  saga 
ciously  accepted  the  challenge,  made  "honest 
blue  jeans"  the  battle-cry,  and  defeated  Ben 
jamin  Harrison,  the  "kid-glove"  candidate  of 
the  Republicans.  Harmless  demagoguery  this, 
or  bad  judgment  on  the  part  of  the  Republi 
cans;  and  yet  I  dare  say  that  if  the  sartorial 
issue  should  again  become  acute  in  our  politics 
the  banner  of  bifurcated  jeans  would  triumph 
now  as  then.  A  Hoosier  statesman  who  to-day 
occupies  high  office  once  explained  to  me  his 
refusal  of  sugar  for  his  coffee  by  remarking  that 
he  did  n't  like  to  waste  sugar  that  way;  he 
wanted  to  keep  it  for  his  lettuce!  I  do  not  urge 

18 


The  Provincial  American 

sugared  lettuce  as  symbolizing  our  higher 
provincialism,  but  mayonnaise  may  be  poison 
to  men  who  are  nevertheless  competent  to 
construe  and  administer  law. 

It  is  much  more  significant  that  we  are  all 
thinking  about  the  same  things  at  the  same 
time,  than  that  Farnam  Street,  Omaha,  and 
Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,  should  vibrate  to  the 
same  shade  of  necktie.  The  distribution  of 
periodicals  is  so  managed  that  California  and 
Maine  cut  the  leaves  of  their  magazines  on  the 
same  day.  Rural  free  delivery  has  hitched  the 
farmer's  wagon  to  the  telegraph-office,  and  you 
can't  buy  his  wife's  butter  now  until  he  has 
scanned  the  produce  market  in  his  newspaper. 
This  immediacy  of  contact  does  not  alter  the 
provincial  point  of  view.  New  York  and  Texas, 
Oregon  and  Florida  will  continue  to  see  things 
at  different  angles,  and  it  is  for  the  good  of  all  of 
us  that  this  is  so.  We  have  no  national  political, 
social,  or  intellectual  centre.  There  is  no  "sea 
son"  in  New  York,  as  in  London,  during  which 
all  persons  distinguished  in  any  of  these  partic 
ulars  meet  on  common  ground.  Washington  is 
our  nearest  approach  to  such  a  meeting-place, 


The  Provincial  American 

but  it  offers  only  short  vistas.  We  of  the  coun 
try  visit  Boston  for  the  symphony,  or  New 
York  for  the  opera,  or  Washington  to  view  the 
government  machine  at  work,  but  nowhere  do 
interesting  people  representative  of  all  our 
ninety  millions  ever  assemble  under  one  roof. 
All  our  capitals  are,  as  Lowell  put  it,  "frac 
tional,"  and  we  shall  hardly  have  a  centre  while 
our  country  is  so  nearly  a  continent. 

Nothing  in  our  political  system  could  be  wiser 
than  our  dispersion  into  provinces.  Sweep  from 
the  map  the  lines  that  divide  the  States  and  we 
should  huddle  like  sheep  suddenly  deprived  of 
the  protection  of  known  walls  and  flung  upon 
the  open  prairie.  State  lines  and  local  pride  are 
in  themselves  a  pledge  of  stability.  The  elas 
ticity  of  our  system  makes  possible  a  variety  of 
governmental  experiments  by  which  the  whole 
country  profits.  We  should  all  rejoice  that  the 
parochial  mind  is  so  open,  so  eager,  so  earnest, 
so  tolerant.  Even  the  most  buckramed  con 
servative  on  the  eastern  coast-line,  scornful  of 
the  political  follies  of  our  far-lying  provinces, 
must  view  with  some  interest  the  dallyings  of 
Oregon  with  the  Referendum,  and  of  Des 

20 


The  Provincial  American 

Moines  with  the  Commission  System.  If  Mil 
waukee  wishes  to  try  socialism,  the  rest  of  us 
need  not  complain.  Democracy  will  cease  to  be 
democracy  when  all  its  problems  are  solved  and 
everybody  votes  the  same  ticket. 

States  that  produce  the  most  cranks  are 
prodigal  of  the  corn  that  pays  the  dividends  on 
the  railroads  the  cranks  despise.  Indiana's 
amiable  feeling  toward  New  York  is  not  altered 
by  her  sister's  rejection  or  acceptance  of  the 
direct  primary,  a  benevolent  device  of  noblest 
intention,  under  which,  not  long  ago,  in  my  own 
commonwealth,  my  fellow  citizens  expressed 
their  distrust  of  me  with  unmistakable  empha 
sis.  It  is  no  great  matter,  but  in  open  conven 
tion  also  I  have  perished  by  the  sword.  No 
thing  can  thwart  the  chastening  hand  of  a 
righteous  people. 

All  passes;  humor  alone  is  the  touchstone  of 
democracy.  I  search  the  newspapers  daily  for 
tidings  of  Kansas,  and  in  the  ways  of  Oklahoma 
I  find  delight.  The  Emporia  "Gazette"  is  quite 
as  patriotic  as  the  Springfield  "Republican"  or 
the  New  York  "Post,"  and  to  my  own  taste, 
far  less  depressing.  I  subscribed  for  a  year  to 

21 


The  Provincial  American 

the  Charleston  "News  and  Courier,"  and  was 
saddened  by  the  tameness  of  its  sentiments ;  for 
I  remember  (it  must  have  been  in  1883)  the 
shrinking  horror  with  which  I  saw  daily  in  the 
Indiana  Republican  organ  a  quotation  from 
Wade  Hampton  to  the  effect  that  "these  are 
the  same  principles  for  which  Lee  and  Jackson 
fought  four  years  on  Virginia's  soil."  Most  of 
us  are  entertained  when  Colonel  Watterson 
rises  to  speak  for  Kentucky  and  invokes  the 
star-eyed  goddess.  When  we  call  the  roll  of  the 
States,  if  Malvolio  answer  for  any,  let  us  suffer 
him  in  patience  and  rejoice  in  his  yellow  stock 
ings.  "God  give  them  wisdom  that  have  it;  and 
those  that  are  fools,  let  them  use  their  talents." 
Every  community  has  its  dissenters,  protest- 
ants,  kickers,  cranks;  the  more  the  merrier.  My 
town  has  not  lacked  impressive  examples,  and 
I  early  formed  a  high  resolve  to  strive  for  mem 
bership  in  their  execrated  company.  George  W. 
Julian,  —  one  of  the  noblest  of  Hoosiers,  — 
who  had  been  the  Free-Soil  candidate  for  Vice- 
President  in  1852,  a  delegate  to  the  first  Re 
publican  convention,  five  times  a  member  of 
Congress,  a  supporter  of  Greeley's  candidacy, 

22 


The  Provincial  American 

and  a  Democrat  in  the  consulship  of  Cleveland, 
was  a  familiar  figure  in  our  streets.  In  1884 
I  was  dusting  law-books  in  an  office  where  mug- 
wumpery  flourished,  and  where  the  iniquities  of 
the  tariff,  Matthew  Arnold's  theological  opin 
ions,  and  the  writings  of  Darwin,  Spencer,  and 
Huxley  were  discussed  at  intervals  in  the  days' 
business. 

IV 

Many  complain  that  we  Americans  give  too 
much  time  to  politics,  but  there  could  be  no 
safer  outlet  for  that  "added  drop  of  nervous 
fluid  "  which  Colonel  Higginson  found  in  us  and 
turned  over  to  Matthew  Arnold  for  further 
analysis.  No  doubt  many  voices  will  cry  in  the 
wilderness  before  we  reach  the  promised  land. 
A  people  which  has  been  fed  on  the  Bible  is 
bound  to  hear  the  rumble  of  Pharaoh's  chariots. 
It  is  in  the  blood  to  resent  the  oppressor's  wrong, 
the  proud  man's  contumely.  The  winter  even 
ings  are  long  on  the  prairies,  and  we  must  always 
be  fashioning  a  crown  for  Caesar  or  rehearsing 
his  funeral  rites.  No  great  danger  can  ever  seri 
ously  menace  the  nation  so  long  as  the  remotest 
citizen  clings  to  his  faith  that  he  is  a  part  of  the 

23 


The  Provincial  American 

governmental  mechanism  and  can  at  any  time 
throw  it  out  of  adjustment  if  it  does  n't  run  to 
suit  him.  He  can  go  into  the  court-house  and 
see  the  men  he  helped  to  place  in  office;  or  if 
they  were  chosen  in  spite  of  him,  he  pays  his 
taxes  just  the  same  and  waits  for  another 
chance  to  turn  the  rascals  out. 

Mr.  Bryce  wrote:  "This  tendency  to  ac 
quiescence  and  submission;  this  sense  of  the 
insignificance  of  individual  effort,  this  belief 
that  the  affairs  of  men  are  swayed  by  large 
forces  whose  movement  may  be  studied  but 
cannot  be  turned,  I  have  ventured  to  call  the 
Fatalism  of  the  Multitude."  It  is,  I  should  say, 
one  of  the  most  encouraging  phenomena  of  the 
score  of  years  that  has  elapsed  since  Mr. 
Bryce's  "American  Commonwealth" appeared, 
that  we  have  grown  much  less  conscious  of  the 
crushing  weight  of  the  mass.  It  has  been  with 
something  of  a  child's  surprise  in  his  ultimate 
successful  manipulation  of  a  toy  whose  mechan 
ism  had  baffled  him  that  we  have  begun  to  real 
ize  that,  after  all,  the  individual  counts.  The 
pressure  of  the  mass  will  yet  be  felt,  but  in  spite 
of  its  persistence  there  are  abundant  signs  that 

24 


The  Provincial  American 

the  individual  is  asserting  himself  more  and 
more,  and  even  the  undeniable  acceptance  of 
collectivist  ideas  in  many  quarters  helps  to 
prove  it.  With  all  our  faults  and  defaults  of 
understanding,  —  populism,  free  silver,  Cox- 
ey's  army,  and  the  rest  of  it,  —  we  of  the  West 
have  not  done  so  badly.  Be  not  impatient  with 
the  young  man  Absalom;  the  mule  knows  his 
way  to  the  oak  tree! 

Blaine  lost  Indiana  in  1884;  Bryan  failed 
thrice  to  carry  it.  The  campaign  of  1910  in 
Indiana  was  remarkable  for  the  stubbornness 
of  "silent"  voters,  who  listened  respectfully  to 
the  orators  but  left  the  managers  of  both  parties 
in  the  air  as  to  their  intentions.  In  the  Indi 
ana  Democratic  State  Convention  of  1910  a 
gentleman  was  furiously  hissed  for  ten  minutes 
amid  a  scene  of  wildest  tumult;  but  the  cause 
he  advocated  won,  and  the  ticket  nominated  in 
that  memorable  convention  succeeded  in  No 
vember.  Within  fifty  years  Ohio,  Indiana,  and 
Illinois  have  sent  to  Washington  seven  Presid 
ents,  elected  for  ten  terms.  Without  discuss 
ing  the  value  of  their  public  services  it  may  be 
said  that  it  has  been  an  important  demonstra- 

25 


The  Provincial  American 

tion  to  our  Mid-Western  people  of  the  closeness 
of  their  ties  with  the  nation,  that  so  many  men 
of  their  own  soil  have  been  chosen  to  the  seat  of 
the, Presidents;  and  it  is  creditable  to  Maine 
and  California  that  they  have  cheerfully  ac 
quiesced.  In  Lincoln  the  provincial  American 
most  nobly  asserted  himself,  and  any  discussion 
of  the  value  of  provincial  life  and  character  in 
our  politics  may  well  begin  and  end  in  him.  We 
have  seen  verily  that 

"Fishers  and  choppers  and  ploughmen 
Shall  constitute  a  state." 

Whitman,  addressing  Grant  on  his  return 
from  his  world's  tour,  declared  that  it  was  not 
that  the  hero  had  walked  "with  kings  with  even 
pace  the  round  world's  promenade";  — 

"But  that  in  foreign  lands,  in  all  thy  walks  with  kings, 
Those  prairie  sovereigns  of  the  West,  Kansas,  Missouri, 

Illinois, 
Ohio's,  Indiana's  millions,  comrades,  farmers,  soldiers, 

all  to  the  front, 
Invisibly  with  thee  walking  with  kings  with  even  pace 

the  round  world's  promenade, 
Were  all  so  justified." 

What  we  miss  and  what  we  lack  who  live  in 
the  provinces  seem  to  me  of  little  weight  in  the 

26 


The  Provincial  American 

scale  against  our  compensations.  We  slouch, — 
we  are  deficient  in  the  graces,  —  we  are  prone 
to  boast,  —  and  we  lack  in  those  fine  reticences 
that  mark  the  cultivated  citizen  of  the  metrop 
olis.  We  like  to  talk,  and  we  talk  our  problems 
out  to  a  finish.  Our  commonwealths  rose  in  the 
ashes  of  the  hunter's  camp-fires,  and  we  are  all 
a  great  neighborhood,  united  in  a  common  un 
derstanding  of  what  democracy  is,  and  ani 
mated  by  ideals  of  what  we  want  it  to  be.  That 
saving  humor  which  is  a  philosophy  of  life 
flourishes  amid  the  tall  corn.  We  are  old  enough 
now  —  we  of  the  West  —  to  have  built  up  in 
ourselves  a  species  of  wisdom,  founded  upon 
experience,  which  is  a  part  of  the  continuing, 
unwritten  law  of  democracy.  We  are  less  likely 
these  days  to  "wobble  right"  than  we  are  to 
stand  fast  or  march  forward  like  an  army  with 
banners. 

We  provincials  are  immensely  curious.  Art, 
music,  literature,  politics  —  nothing  that  is  of 
contemporaneous  human  interest  is  alien  to  us. 
If  these  things  don't  come  to  us,  we  go  to  them. 
We  are  more  truly  representative  of  the  Ameri 
can  ideal  than  our  metropolitan  cousins,  be- 

27    "' 


The  Provincial  American 

cause  (here  I  lay  my  head  upon  the  block)  we 
know  more  about,  oh,  so  many  things!  We 
know  vastly  more  about  the  United  States,  for 
one  thing.  We  know  what  New  York  is  think 
ing  before  New  York  herself  knows  it,  because 
we  visit  the  metropolis  to  find  out.  Sleeping- 
cars  have  no  terrors  for  us,  and  a  man  who  has 
never  been  west  of  Philadelphia  seems  to  us  a 
singularly  benighted  being.  Those  of  our  West 
ern  school-teachers  who  don't  see  Europe  for 
three  hundred  dollars  every  summer  get  at  least 
as  far  East  as  Concord,  to  be  photographed 
"by  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood." 
f  That  fine  austerity  which  the  voluble  West 
erner  finds  so  smothering  on  the  Boston  and 
New  York  express  is  lost  utterly  at  Pittsburg. 
From  gentlemen  cruising  in  day-coaches  —  dull 
wights  who  advertise  their  personal  sanitation 
and  literacy  by  the  toothbrush  and  fountain- 
pen  planted  sturdily  in  their  upper  left-hand 
waistcoat  pockets  —  one  may  learn  the  most 
prodigious  facts  and  the  philosophy  thereof. 
"Sit  over,  brother;  there's  hell  to  pay  in  the 
Balkans,"  remarks  the  gentleman  who  boarded 
the  interurban  at  Peru  or  Connersville,  and  who 

28 


The  Provincial  American 

would  just  as  lief  discuss  the  Papacy  or  child- 
labor,  if  revolutions  are  not  to  your  liking. 

In  Boston  a  lady  once  expressed  her  surprise 
that  I  should  be  hastening  home  for  Thanks 
giving  Day.  This,  she  thought,  was  a  New 
England  festival.  More  recently  I  was  asked 
by  a  Bostonian  if  I  had  ever  heard  of  Paul 
Revere.  Nothing  is  more  delightful  in  us,  I 
think,  than  our  meekness  before  instruction. 
We  strive  to  please;  all  we  ask  is  "to  be  shown." 

Our  greatest  gain  is  in  leisure  and  the  oppor 
tunity  to  ponder  and  brood.  In  all  these  thous 
ands  of  country  towns  live  alert  and  shrewd 
students  of  affairs.  Where  your  New  Yorker 
scans  headlines  as  he  "commutes"  homeward, 
the  villager  reaches  his  own  fireside  without 
being  shot  through  a  tube,  and  sits  down  and 
reads  his  newspaper  thoroughly.  When  he  re 
pairs  to  the  drug-store  to  abuse  or  praise  the 
powers  that  be,  his  wife  reads  the  paper,  too.  A 
United  States  Senator  from  a  Middle  Western 
State,  making  a  campaign  for  renomination 
preliminary  to  the  primaries,  warned  the  people 
in  rural  communities  against  the  newspaper 
and  periodical  press  with  its  scandals  and  here- 

29 


The  Provincial  American 

sies.  "Wait  quietly  by  your  firesides,  undis 
turbed  by  these  false  teachings,"  he  said  in  ef 
fect;  "then  go  to  your  primaries  and  voters 
you  have  always  voted."  His  opponent  won  by 
thirty  thousand,  —  the  amiable  answer  of  the 
little  red  school-house.  ^ 

v 

A  few  days  ago  I  visited  again  my  native 
town.  On  the  slope  where  I  played  as  a  child  I 
listened  in  vain  for  the  mourning  bugle;  but  on 
the  college  campus  a  bronze  tablet  commemo 
rative  of  those  sons  of  Wabash  who  had  fought 
in  the  mighty  war  quickened  the  old  impres 
sions.  The  college  buildings  wear  a  look  of  age 
in  the  gathering  dusk. 

"Coldly,  sadly  descends 
The  autumn  evening.  The  field 
Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 
Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms,  ' 
Fade  into  dimness  apace, 
Silent;  hardly  a  shout 
From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play!" 

Brave  airs  of  cityhood  are  apparent  in  the 
town,  with  its  paved  streets,  fine  hall  and  li 
brary;  and  everywhere  are  wholesome  life,  com- 

30 


The  Provincial  American 

fort,  and  peace.  The  train  is  soon  hurrying 
through  gray  fields  and  dark  woodlands.  Farm 
houses  are  disclosed  by  glowing  panes;  lanterns 
flash  fitfully  where  farmers  are  making  all  fast 
for  the  night.  The  city  is  reached  as  great  fac 
tories  are  discharging  their  laborers,  and  I  pass 
from  the  station  into  a  hurrying  throng  home 
ward  bound.  Against  the  sky  looms  the  dome 
of  the  capitol;  the  tall  shaft  of  the  soldiers' 
monument  rises  ahead  of  me  down  the  long 
street  and  vanishes  starward.  Here  where  for 
ests  stood  seventy-five  years  ago,  in  a  State  that 
has  not  yet  attained  its  centenary,  is  realized 
much  that  man  has  sought  through  all  the  ages, 
—  order,  justice,  and  mercy,  kindliness  and 
good  cheer.  What  we  lack  we  seek,  and  what 
we  strive  for  we  shall  gain.  And  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  democracy.;, 


Edward  Eggleston 


Edward  Eggleston 

THE  safest  appeal  of  the  defender  of  real 
ism  in  fiction  continues  to  be  to  geo 
graphy.  The  old  inquiry  for  the  great  American 
novel  ignored^the  persistent  expansion  by  which 
the  American  States  were  multiplying.  If  the 
question  had  not  ceased  to  be  a  burning  issue, 
the  earnest  seeker  might  now  be  given  pause  by 
the  recent  appearance  upon  our  maps  of  far- 
lying  islands  which  must,  in  due  course,  add  to 
the  perplexity  of  any  who  wish  to  view  Ameri 
can  life  steadily  or  whole.  If  we  should  sud 
denly  vanish,  leaving  only  a  solitary  Homer  to 
chant  us,  we  might  possibly  be  celebrated  ade 
quately  in  a  single  epic,  but  as  long  as  we  con 
tinue  malleable  and  flexible  we  shall  hardly  be 
"begun,  continued,  and  ended"  in  a  single  no 
vel,  drama,  or  poem.  He  were  a  much-enduring 
Ulysses  who  could  touch  once  at  all  our  ports. 
Even  Walt  Whitman,  from  the  top  of  his  omni 
bus,  could  not  see  across  the  palms  of  Hawaii  or 
the  roofs  of  Manila;  and  yet  we  shall  doubtless 

35 


Edward  Eggleston 

receive,  in  due  course,  bulletins  from  the  Dia 
lect  Society  with  notes  on  colonial  influences  in 
American  speech.  Thus  it  is  fair  to  assume  that 
in  the  nature  of  things  we  shall  rely  more  and 
more  on  realistic  fiction  for  a  federation  of  the 
scattered  States  of  this  decentralized  and  di 
verse  land  of  ours  in  a  literature  which  shall  be 
come  our  most  vivid  social  history.  We  cannot 
be  condensed  into  one  or  a  dozen  finished  pan 
oramas  ;  he  who  would  know  us  hereafter  must 
read  us  in  the  flashes  of  the  kinetoscope. 

Important  testimony  to  the  efficacy  of  an 
honest  and  trustworthy  realism  has  passed  into 
the  record  in  the  work  of  Edward  Eggleston, 
our  pioneer  provincial  realist.  Eggleston  saw 
early  the  value  of  a  local  literature,  and  demon 
strated  that  where  it  may  be  referred  to  general 
judgments,  where  it  interprets  the  universal 
heart  and  conscience,  an  attentive  audience 
may  be  found  for  it.  It  was  his  unusual  fortune 
to  have  combined  a  personal  experience  at  once 
varied  and  novel  with  a  self-acquired  education 
to  which  he  gave  the  range  and  breadth  of  true 
cultivation,  and,  in  special  directions,  the  pre 
cision  of  scholarship.  The  primary  facts  of  life 

36 


Edward  Eggleston 

as  he  knew  them  in  the  Indiana  of  his  boyhood 
took  deep  hold  upon  his  imagination,  and  the 
experiences  of  that  period  did  much  to  shape 
his  career.  He  knew  the  life  of  the  Ohio  Valley 
at  an  interesting  period  of  transition.  He  was 
not  merely  a  spectator  of  striking  social  phe 
nomena  ;  but  he  might  have  said,  with  a  degree 
of  truth,  quorum  pars  magna  fui;  for  he  was  a 
representative  of  the  saving  remnant  which 
stood  for  enlightenment  in  a  dark  day  in  a  new 
land.  Literature  had  not  lacked  servants  in  the 
years  of  his  youth  in  the  Ohio  Valley.  Many 
knew  in  those  days  the  laurel  madness ;  but  they 
went  "searching  with  song  the  whole  world 
through"  with  no  appreciation  of  the  material 
that  lay  ready  to  their  hands  at  home.  Their 
work  drew  no  strength  from  the  Western  soil, 
but  was  the  savorless  fungus  of  a  flabby  senti- 
mentalism.  It  was  left  for  Eggleston,  with 
characteristic  independence,  to  abandon  fancy 
for  reality.  He  never  became  a  great  novelist, 
and  yet  his  homely  stories  of  the  early  Hoosiers, 
preserving  as  they  do  the  acrid  bite  of  the  per 
simmon  and  the  mellow  flavor  of  the  pawpaw, 
strengthen  the  whole  case  for  a  discerning  and 

37 


Edward  Eggleston 

faithful  treatment  of  local  life.  What  he  saw 
will  not  be  seen  again,  and  when  "The  Hoosier 
Schoolmaster"  and  "Roxy"  cease  to  entertain 
as  fiction  they  will  teach  as  history. 

The  assumption  in  many  quarters  that  "The 
Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  was  in  some  measure 
autobiographical  was  always  very  distasteful  to 
Dr.  Eggleston,  and  he  entered  his  denial  forci 
bly  whenever  occasion  offered.  His  own  life  was 
sheltered,  and  he  experienced  none  of  the  tradi 
tional  hardships  of  the  self-made  man.  He 
knew  at  once  the  companionship  of  cultivated 
people  and  good  books.  His  father,  Joseph 
Gary  Eggleston,  who  removed  to  Vevay,  Indi 
ana,  from  Virginia  in  1832,  was  an  alumnus  of 
William  and  Mary  College,  and  his  mother's 
family,  the  Craigs,  were  well  known  in  southern 
Indiana,  where  they  were  established  as  early 
as  1799.  Joseph  Gary  Eggleston  served  in  both 
houses  of  the  Indiana  Legislature,  and  was  de 
feated  for  Congress  in  the  election  of  1844.  His 
cousin,  Miles  Gary  Eggleston,  was  a  prominent 
Indiana  lawyer,  and  a  judge  in  the  early  days, 
riding  the  long  Whitewater  circuit,  which  then 
extended  through  eastern  Indiana  from  the 

38 


Edward  Eggleston 

Ohio  to  the  Michigan  border.  Edward  Eggles 
ton  was  born  at  Vevay,  December  10,  1837. 
His  boyhood  horizons  were  widened  by  the  re 
moval  of  his  family  to  New  Albany  and  Madi 
son,  by  a  sojourn  in  the  backwoods  of  Decatur 
County,  and  by  thirteen  months  spent  in 
Amelia  County,  Wirginia,{  his  father's  former 
home.  There  he  saw  slavery  practiced,  and 
he  ever  afterward  held  anti-slavery  opinions. 
There  was  much  to  interest  an  intelligent  boy 
in  the  Ohio  Valley  of  those  years.  Remini 
scences  of  the  frontiersmen  who  had  redeemed 
the  valley  from  savagery  seasoned  fireside  talk 
with  the  spice  of  adventure;  Clark's  conquest 
had  enrolled  Vincennes  in  the  list  of  battles  of 
the  Revolution;  the  battle  of  Tippecanoe  was 
recent  history;  and  the  long  rifle  was  still  the 
inevitable  accompaniment  of  the  axe  through 
out  a  vast  area  of  Hoosier  wilderness.  There 
was,  however,  in  all  the  towns  —  Vevay, 
Brookville,  Madison,  Vincennes  —  a  cultivated 
society,  and  before  Edward  Eggleston  was  born 
a  remarkable  group  of  scholars  and  adventurers 
had  gathered  about  Robert  Owen  at  New 
Harmony,  in  the  lower  Wabash,  and  while  their 

39 


Edward  Eggleston 

experiment  in  socialism  was  a  dismal  failure, 
they  left  nevertheless  an  impression  which  is 
still  plainly  traceable  in  that  region.  Abraham 
Lincoln  lived  for  fourteen  years  (1816-30)  in 
Spencer  County,  Indiana,  and  witnessed  there 
the  same  procession  of  the  Ohio's  argosies 
which  Eggleston  watched  later  in  Switzerland 
County. 

Edward  Eggleston  attended  school  for  not 
more  than  eighteen  months  after  his  tenth  year, 
and  owing  to  ill  health  he  never  entered  college, 
though  his  father,  who  died  at  thirty-four,  had 
provided  a  scholarship  for  him.  But  he  knew  in 
his  youth  a  woman  of  unusual  gifts,  Mrs.  Julia 
Dumont,  who  conducted  a  dame  school  at 
Vevay.  Mrs.  Dumont  is  the  most  charming  fig 
ure  in  early  Indiana  history,  and  Dr.  Eggles- 
ton's  own  portrait  of  her  is  at  once  a  tribute 
and  an  acknowledgment.  She  wrote  much  in 
prose  and  verse,  so  that  young  Eggleston,  be 
sides  the  stimulating  atmosphere  of  his  own 
home,  had  before  him  in  his  formative  years  a 
writer  of  somewhat  more  than  local  reputation 
for  his  intimate  counselor  and  teacher.  His 
schooling  continued  to  be  desultory,  but  his 

40 


Edward  Eggleston 

curiosity  was  insatiable,  and  there  was,  indeed, 
no  period  in  which  he  was  not  an  eager  student. 
His  life  was  rich  in  those  minor  felicities  of  for 
tune  which  disclose  pure  gold  to  seeing  eyes  in 
any  soil.  He  wrote  once  of  the  happy  chance 
which  brought  him  to  a  copy  of  Milton  in  a  little 
house  where  he  lodged  for  a  night  on  the  St. 
Croix  River.  His  account  of  his  first  reading  of 
"L'Allegro"  is  characteristic:  "I  read  it  in 
the  freshness  of  the  early  morning,  and  in  the 
freshness  of  early  manhood,  sitting  by  a  win 
dow  embowered  with  honeysuckles  dripping 
with  dew,  and  overlooking  the  deep  trap-rock 
dalles  through  which  the  dark,  pine-stained 
waters  of  the  St.  Croix  River  run  swiftly.  Just 
abreast  of  the  little  village  the  river  opened  for 
a  space,  and  there  were  islands;  and  a  raft, 
manned  by  two  or  three  red-shirted  men,  was 
emerging  from  the  gorge  into  the  open  water. 
Alternately  reading  'L'Allegro'  and  looking  off 
at  the  poetic  landscape,  I  was  lifted  out  of  the 
sordid  world  into  a  region  of  imagination  and 
creation.  When,  two  or  three  hours  later,  I 
galloped  along  the  road,  here  and  there  over 
looking  the  dalles  and  river,  the  glory  of  a 

41 


Edward  Eggleston 

nature  above  nature  penetrated  my  being;  and 
Milton's  song  of  joy  reverberated  still  in  my 
thoughts."  He  was,  it  may  be  said,  a  natural 
etymologist,  and  by  the  time  he  reached  man 
hood  he  had  acquired  a  reading  knowledge  of 
half  a  dozen  languages.  We  have  glimpses  of 
him  as  chain-bearer  for  a  surveying  party  in 
Minnesota;  as  walking  across  country  toward 
Kansas,  with  an  ambition  to  take  a  hand  in  the 
border  troubles ;  and  then  once  more  in  Indiana, 
in  his  nineteenth  year,  as  an  itinerant  Method 
ist  minister.  He  rode  a  four-week  circuit  with 
ten  preaching  places  along  the  Ohio,  his  theo 
logical  training  being  described  by  his  state 
ment  that  in  those  days  "Methodist  preachers 
were  educated  by  the  old  ones  telling  the  young 
ones  all  they  knew."  He  turned  again  to  Min 
nesota  to  escape  malaria,  preaching  in  remote 
villages  to  frontiersmen  and  Indians,  and  later 
he  ministered  to  churches  in  St.  Paul  and  else 
where.  He  held,  first  at  Chicago  and  later  at 
New  York,  a  number  of  editorial  positions,  and 
he  occasionally  contributed  to  juvenile  periodi 
cals;  but  these  early  writings  were  in  no  sense 
remarkable. 

42 


Edward  Eggleston 

"The  Hoosier  Schoolmaster"  appeared  seri 
ally  in  "Hearth  and  Home"  in  1871.  It  was 
written  in  intervals  of  editorial  work  and  was 
a  tour  de  force  for  which  the  author  expected 
so  little  publicity  that  he  gave  his  characters 
the  names  of  persons  then  living  in  Switzer 
land  and  Decatur  counties,  Indiana,  with  no 
thought  that  the  story  would  ever  penetrate 
to  its  habitat.  But  the  homely  little  tale,  with 
all  its  crudities  and  imperfections,  made  a  wide 
appeal.  It  was  pirated  at  once  in  England;  it 
was  translated  into  French  by  "Madame 
Blanc,"  and  was  published  in  condensed  form 
in  the  "Revue  des  Deux  Mondes";  and  later, 
with  one  of  Mr.  Aldrich's  tales  and  other  stories 
by  Eggleston,  in  book  form.  It  was  translated 
into  German  and  Danish  also.  "Le  Maitre 
d'Ecole  de  Flat  Creek"  was  the  title  as  set  over 
into  French,  and  the  Hoosier  dialect  suffered  a 
sea-change  into  something  rich  and  strange  by 
its  cruise  into  French  waters.  The  story  depicts 
Indiana  in  its  darkest  days.  The  State's  illit 
eracy  as  shown  by  the  census  of  1830  was  14.32 
per  cent  as  against  5.54  in  the  neighboring 
State  of  Ohio.  The  "no  lickin'/'no  learnin'" 
.43 


Edward  Eggleston 

period  which  Eggleston  describes  is  thus  a  mat 
ter  of  statistics;  but  even  before  he  wrote  the 
old  order  had  changed  and  Caleb  Mills,  an 
alumnus  of  Dartmouth,  had  come  from  New 
England  to  lead  the  Hoosier  out  of  darkness 
into  the  light  of  free  schools.  The  story  escaped 
the  oblivion  which  overtakes  most  books  for 
the  young  by  reason  of  its  freshness  and  novelty. 
It  was,  indeed,  something  more  than  a  story  for 
boys,  though,  like  "Tom  Sawyer"  and  "The 
Story  of  a  Bad  Boy,"  it  is  listed  among  books  of 
permanent  interest  to  youth.  It  shows  no  un 
usual  gift  of  invention;  its  incidents  are  simple 
and  commonplace;  but  it  daringly  essayed  a  re 
cord  of  local  life  in  a  new  field,  with  the  aid  of  a 
dialect  of  the  people  described,  and  thus  became 
a  humble  but  important  pioneer  in  the  develop 
ment  of  American  fiction.  It  is  true  that  Bret 
Harte  and  Mark  Twain  had  already  widened 
the  borders  of  our  literary  domain  westward; 
and  others,  like  Longstreet,  had  turned  a  few 
spadefuls  of  the  rich  Southern  soil;  but  Harte 
was  of  the  order  of  romancers,  and  Mark  Twain 
was  a  humorist,  while  Longstreet,  in  his  "Geor 
gia  Scenes,"  gives  only  the  eccentric  and  fan- 

44 


Edward  Eggleston 

tastic.  Eggleston  introduced  the  Hoosier  at  the 
bar  of  American  literature  in  advance  of  the 
Creole  of  Mr.  Cable  or  the  negro  of  Mr.  Page 
or  Mr.  Harris,  or  the  mountaineer  of  Miss 
Murfree,  or  the  delightful  shore-folk  of  Miss 
Jewett's  Maine. 

Several  of  Eggleston's  later  Hoosier  stories 
are  a  valuable  testimony  to  the  spiritual  unrest 
of  the  Ohio  Valley  pioneers.  The  early  Hoosiers 
were  a  peculiarly  isolated  people,  shut  in  by  great 
woodlands.  The  news  of  the  world  reached 
them  tardily;  but  they  were  thrilled  by  new 
versions  of  the  Gospel  brought  to  them  by  ad 
venturous  evangelists,  whose  eloquence  made 
Jerusalem  seem  much  nearer  than  their  own 
national  capital.  Heated  discussions  between 
the  sects  supplied  in  those  days  an  intellectual 
stimulus  greater  than  that  of  politics.  Questions 
shook  the  land  which  were  unknown  at  West 
minster  and  Rome;  they  are  now  well-nigh 
forgotten  in  the  valley  where  they  were  once  de 
bated  so  fiercely.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Bosaw  and  his 
monotonously  sung  sermon  in  "The  Hoosier 
Schoolmaster"  are  vouched  for,  and  preaching 
of  the  same  sort  has  been  heard  in  Indiana  at  a 

45 


Edward  Eggleston 

much  later  period  than  that  of  which  Eggleston 
wrote.  "The  End  of  the  World  "  (1872)  describes 
vividly  the  extravagant  belief  of  the  Millerites, 
who,  in  1842-43,  found  positive  proof  in  the  Book 
of  Daniel  that  the  world's  doom  was  at  hand. 
This  tale  shows  little  if  any  gain  in  constructive 
power  over  the  first  Hoosier  story,  and  the  same 
must  be  said  of  "The  Circuit  Rider,"  which 
portrays  the  devotion  and  sacrifice  of  the  hardy 
evangelists  of  the  Southwest  among  whom 
Eggleston  had  served.  "Roxy"  (1878)  marks 
an  advance;  the  story  flows  more  easily,  and  the 
scrutiny  of  life  is  steadier.  The  scene  is  Vevay, 
and  he  contrasts  pleasantly  the  Swiss  and 
Hoosier  villagers,  and  touches  intimately  the 
currents  of  local  religious  and  political  life. 
Eggleston  shows  here  for  the  first  time  a  ca 
pacity  for  handling  a  long  story.  The  characters 
are  of  firmer  fibre;  the  note  of  human  passion 
is  deeper,  and  he  communicates  to  his  pages 
charmingly  the  atmosphere  of  his  native  vil 
lage,  —  its  quiet  streets  and  pretty  gardens,  the 
sunny  hills  and  the  broad-flowing  river.  Vevay 
is  again  the  scene  in  "The  Hoosier  Schoolboy" 
(1883),  which  is,  however,  no  worthy  successor 


Edward  Eggleston 

to  "The  Schoolmaster."  The  workmanship  is 
infinitely  superior  to  that  of  his  first  Hoosier 
tale,  but  he  had  lost  touch,  either  with  the  soil 
(he  had  been  away  from  Indiana  for  more  than 
a  decade),  or  with  youth,  or  with  both,  and  the 
story  is  flat  and  tame.  After  another  long  ab 
sence  he  returned  to  the  Western  field  in  which 
he  had  been  a  pioneer,  and  wrote  "The  Gray- 
sons"  (1888),  a  capital  story  of  Illinois,  in 
which  Lincoln  is  a  character.  Here  and  in  "The 
Faith  Doctor,"  a  novel  of  metropolitan  life 
which  followed  three  years  later,  the  surer 
stroke  of  maturity  is  perceptible;  and  the  short 
stories  collected  in  "Duffles"  include  "Sister 
Tabea,"  a  thoroughly  artistic  bit  of  work,  which 
he  once  spoke  of  as  being  among  the  most  sat 
isfactory  things  he  had  written. 

A  fault  of  all  of  Eggleston's  earlier  stories  is 
their  too  serious  insistence  on  the  moral  they 
carried  —  a  resort  to  the  Dickens  method  of 
including  Divine  Providence  among  the  drama 
tis  persona;  but  this  is  not  surprising  in  one  in 
whom  there  was,  by  his  own  confession,  a  life 
long  struggle  "between  the  lover  of  literary  art 

47 


Edward  Eggleston 

and  the  religionist,  the  reformer,  the  philan 
thropist,  the  man  with  a  mission."  There  is 
little  humor  in  these  tales,  —  there  was  doubt 
less  little  in  the  life  itself,  —  but  there  is  abund 
ant  good  nature.  In  all  he  maintains  consist 
ently  the  point  of  view  of  the  realist,  his  lapses 
being  chiefly  where  the  moralist  has  betrayed 
him.  There  are  many  pictures  which  denote  his 
understanding  of  the  illuminative  value  of 
homely  incident  in  the  life  he  then  knew  best; 
there  are  the  spelling-school,  the  stirring  relig 
ious  debates,  the  barbecue,  the  charivari,  the 
infare,  glimpses  of  "Tippecanoe  and  Tyler  too," 
and  the  "Hard  Cider"  campaign.  Those  times 
rapidly  receded;  Indiana  is  one  of  the  older 
States  now,  and  but  for  Eggleston's  tales  there 
would  be  no  trustworthy  record  of  the  period 
he  describes. 

Lowell  had  made  American  dialect  respect 
able,  and  had  used  it  as  the  vehicle  for  his  polit 
ical  gospel;  but  Eggleston  invoked  the  Hoosier 
lingua  rustica  to  aid  in  the  portrayal  of  a  type. 
He  did  not,  however,  employ  dialect  with  the 
minuteness  of  subsequent  writers,  notably  Mr. 
James  Whitcomb  Riley;  but  the  Southwestern 


Edward  Eggleston 

idiom  impressed  him,  and  his  preface  and  notes 
in  the  later  edition  of  "The  Schoolmaster"  are 
invaluable  to  the  student.  Dialect  remains  in 
Indiana,  aselsewhere,largely  a  matter  of  observ 
ation  and  opinion.  There  has  never  been  a  uni 
form  folk-speech  peculiar  to  the  people  living 
within  the  borders  of  the  State.  The  Hoosier 
dialect,  so  called,  consisting  more  of  elisions  and 
vulgarized  pronunciations  than  of  true  idiom, 
is  spoken  wherever  the  Scotch-Irish  influence  is 
perceptible  in  the  West  Central  States,  notably 
in  the  southern  counties  of  Ohio,  Indiana,  and 
Illinois.  It  is  not  to  be  confounded  with  the 
cruder  speech  of  the  "poor-whitey,"  whose  wild 
strain  in  the  Hoosier  blood  was  believed  by 
Eggleston  to  be  an  inheritance  of  the  English 
bond-slave.  There  were  many  vague  and  baf 
fling  elements  in  the  Ohio  Valley  speech,  but 
they  passed  before  the  specialists  of  the  Dialect 
Society  could  note  them.  Mr.  Riley's  Hoosier 
is  more  sophisticated  than  Eggleston's,  and 
thirty  years  of  change  lie  between  them, — years 
which  wholly  transformed  the  State,  physically 
and  socially.  It  is  diverting  to  have  Eggleston's 
own  statement  that  the  Hoosiers  he  knew  in  his 

49 


Edward  Eggleston 

youth  were  wary  of  New  England  provincial 
isms,  and  that  his  Virginia  father  threatened  to 
inflict  corporal  punishment  on  his  children  "  if 
they  should  ever  give  the  peculiar  vowel  sound 
heard  in  some  parts  of  New  England  in  such 
words  as  'roof  and  'root." 

While  Eggleston  grew  to  manhood  on  a  fron 
tier  which  had  been  a  great  battle-ground,  the 
mere  adventurous  aspects  of  this  life  did  not 
attract  him  when  he  sought  subjects  for  his 
pen;  but  the  culture-history  of  the  people 
among  whom  his  life  fell  interested  him  greatly, 
and  he  viewed  events  habitually  with  a  critical 
eye.  He  found,  however,  that  the  evolution 
of  society  could  not  be  treated  satisfactorily 
in  fiction,  so  he  began,  in  1880,  while  abroad, 
the  researches  in  history  which  were  to  occupy 
him  thereafter  to  the  end  of  his  life.  His  train 
ing  as  a  student  of  social  forces  had  been  super 
ior  to  any  that  he  could  have  obtained  in  the 
colleges  accessible  to  him,  for  he  had  seen  life  in 
the  raw;  he  had  known,  on  the  one  hand,  the 
vanishing  frontiersmen  who  founded  common 
wealths  around  the  hunters'  camp-fires;  and  he 
had,  on  the  other,  witnessed  the  dawn  of  a  new 
.50 


Edward  Eggleston 

era  which  brought  order  and  enlightenment. 
He  thus  became  a  delver  in  libraries  only  after 
he  had  scratched  under  the  crust  of  life  itself. 
While  he  turned  first  to  the  old  seaboard  colo 
nies  in  pursuit  of  his  new  purpose,  he  brought 
to  his  research  an  actual  knowledge  of  the  be 
ginnings  of  new  States  which  he  had  gained  in 
the  open.  He  planned  a  history  of  life  in  the 
United  States  on  new  lines,  his  main  idea  be 
ing  to  trace  conditions  and  movements  to  re 
motest  sources.  He  collected  and  studied  his 
material  for  sixteen  years  before  he  published 
any  result  of  his  labors  beyond  a  few  magazine 
papers.  "The  Beginnings  of  a  Nation"  (1896) 
and  "The  Transit  of  Civilization"  (1901)  are 
only  part  of  the  scheme  as  originally  outlined, 
but  they  are  complete  as  far  as  they  go,  and  are 
of  permanent  interest  and  value.  History  was 
not  to  him  a  dusty  lumber  room,  but  a  sunny 
street  where  people  came  and  went  in  their  hab 
its  as  they  lived;  and  thus,  in  a  sense,  he  applied 
to  history  the  realism  of  fiction.  He  pursued  his 
task  with  scientific  ardor  and  accuracy,  but 
without  fussiness  or  dullness.  His  occupations 
as  novelist  and  editor  had  been  a  preparation 

Si 


Edward  Eggleston 

for  his  later  work,  for  it  was  the  story  quality 
that  he  sought  in  history,  and  he  wrote  with  an 
editorial  eye  to  what  is  salient  and  interesting. 
It  is  doubtful  whether  equal  care  has  ever  been 
given  to  the  preparation  of  any  other  historical 
work  in  this  country.  The  plan  of  the  books  is 
in  itself  admirable,  and  the  exhaustive  charac 
ter  of  his  researches  is  emphasized  by  copious 
notes,  which  are  hardly  less  attractive  than 
the  text  they  amplify  and  strengthen.  He  ex 
pressed  himself  with  simple  adequacy,  with 
out  flourish,  and  with  a  nice  economy  of  words; 
but  he  could,  when  he  chose,  throw  grace  and 
charm  into  his  writing.  He  was,  in  the  best 
sense,  a  humanist.  He  knew  the  use  of  books, 
but  he  vitalized  them  from  a  broad  knowledge 
of  life.  He  had  been  a  minister,  preaching  a 
simple  gospel,  for  he  was  never  a  theologian  as 
the  term  is  understood,  but  he  enlisted  zeal 
ously  in  movements  for  the  bettering  of  man 
kind,  and  his  influence  was  unfailingly  whole 
some  and  stimulating. 

His  robust  spirit  was  held  in  thrall  by  an  in 
valid  body,  and  throughout  his  life  his  work  was 
constantly  interrupted  by  serious  illnesses;  but 

52 


Edward  Eggleston 

there  was  about  him  a  certain  blitheness;  his 
outlook  on  life  was  cheerful  and  sanguine.  He 
was  tremendously  in  earnest  in  all  his  under 
takings  and  accomplished  first  and  last  an  im 
mense  amount  of  work,  —  preacher,  author, 
editor,  and  laborious  student,  his  industry  was 
ceaseless.  His  tall  figure,  his  fine  head  with 
its  shock  of  white  hair,  caught  the  attention 
in  any  gathering.  He  was  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  talkers,  leading  lightly  on  from  one 
topic  to  another.  No  one  who  ever  heard  his 
voice  can  forget  its  depth  and  resonance.  Noth 
ing  in  our  American  annals  is  more  interesting 
or  more  remarkable  than  the  rise  of  such  men, 
who  appear  without  warning  in  all  manner  of 
out-of-the-way  places  and  succeed  in  precisely 
those  fields  which  environment  and  opportun 
ity  seemingly  conspire  to  fortify  most  strongly 
against  them.  Eggleston  possessed  in  marked 
degree  that  self-reliance  which  Higginson  calls 
the  first  requisite  of  a  new  literature,  and 
through  it  he  earned  for  himself  a  place  of 
dignity  and  honor  in  American  letters. 


A  Provincial  Capital 


A  Provincial  Capital 

THE  Hoosier  is  not  so  deeply  wounded  by 
the  assumption  in  Eastern  quarters  that 
he  is  a  wild  man  of  the  woods  as  by  the  amiable 
condescension  of  acquaintances  at  the  sea 
board,  who  tell  him,  when  he  mildly  remon 
strates,  that  his  abnormal  sensitiveness  is 
provincial.  This  is,  indeed,  the  hardest  lot,  to 
be  called  a  "mudsill"  and  then  rebuked  for 
talking  back!  There  are,  however,  several 
special  insults  to  which  the  citizen  of  Indiana 
polis  is  subjected,  and  these  he  resents  with  all 
the  strength  of  his  being.  First  among  them  is 
the  proneness  of  many  to  confuse  Indianapolis 
and  Minneapolis.  To  the  citizen  of  the  Hoosier 
capital,  Minneapolis  seems  a  remote  place,  that 
can  be  reached  only  by  passing  through  Chi 
cago.  Still  another  source  of  intense  annoyance 
is  the  persistent  fallacy  that  Indianapolis  is 
situated  on  the  Wabash  River.  There  seems  to 
be  something  funny  about  the  name  of  this 
pleasant  stream,  —  immortalized  in  late  years 

57 


A  Provincial  Capital 

by  a  tuneful  balladist,  —  which  a  large  per 
centage  of  the  people  of  Indianapolis  have 
never  seen  except  from  a  car  window.  East  of 
Pittsburg  the  wanderer  from  Hoosierdom  ex 
pects  to  be  asked  how  things  are  on  the  Way- 
bosh,  —  a  pronunciation  which,  by  the  way,  is 
never  heard  at  home.  Still  another  grievance 
that  has  embittered  the  lives  of  Indianapoli- 
tans  is  the  annoying  mispronunciation  of  the 
name  of  their  town  by  benighted  outsiders. 
Rural  Hoosiers,  in  fact,  offend  the  ears  of  their 
city  cousins  with  Indianopolis ;  but  it  is  left 
usually  for  the  Yankee  visitor  to  say  Injun- 
apolis,  with  a  stress  on  Injun  which  points 
rather  unnecessarily  to  the  day  of  the  war- 
whoop  and  scalp-dance. 

Indianapolis  —  like  Jerusalem,  "a  city  at 
unity  with  itself,"  where  the  tribes  assemble, 
and  where  the  seat  of  judgment  is  established 
—  is  in  every  sense  the  capital  of  all  the  Hoo 
siers.  With  the  exception  of  Boston,  it  is  the 
largest  state  capital  in  the  country;  and  no 
other  American  city  without  water  communi 
cation  is  so  large.  It  is  distinguished  primarily 
by  the  essentially  American  character  of  its 

58 


A  Provincial  Capital 

people.  A  considerable  body  of  Germans  con 
tributed  much  first  and  last  to  its  substantial 
growth,  not  only  by  the  example  of  their  fa 
miliar  industry  and  frugality,  but  in  later 
years  through  their  intelligent  interest  in  all 
manner  of  civic  improvement,  in  general  edu 
cation,  and  in  music  and  art.  Only  in  the  past 
decade  has  there  been  any  perceptible  drift  of 
undesirable  immigrants  from  southeastern 
Europe  to  our  city  and  the  problems  they 
create  have  been  met  promptly  by  wise  agen 
cies  of  social  service.  There  was  an  influx  of 
negroes  at  the  close  of  the  war,  and  the  colored 
voters  (about  seventy-five  hundred  in  1912)  add 
considerably  to  our  political  perplexities. 

Indiana  was  admitted  as  a  State  in  1816,  and 
the  General  Assembly,  sitting  at  Corydon  in 
1821,  designated  Indianapolis,  then  a  settle 
ment  of  struggling  cabins,  as  the  state  capital. 
The  name  of  the  new  town  was  not  adopted 
without  a  struggle,  Tecumseh,  Suwarro,  and 
Concord  being  proposed  and  supported,  while 
the  name  finally  chosen  aroused  the  hostility  of 
those  who  declared  it  unmelodious  and  etymo- 
logically  abominable.  It  is  of  record  that  the 

59 


A  Provincial  Capital 

first  mention  of  the  name  Indianapolis  in  the 
legislature  caused  great  merriment.  The  town 
was  laid  out  in  broad  streets,  which  were 
quickly  adorned  with  shade  trees  that  are  an 
abiding  testimony  to  the  foresight  of  the  found 
ers.  Alexander  Ralston,  one  of  the  engineers 
employed  in  the  first  survey,  had  served  in  a 
similar  capacity  at  Washington,  and  the  diago 
nal  avenues  and  the  generous  breadth  of  the 
streets  are  suggestive  of  the  national  capital. 
The  urban  landscape  lacks  variety :  the  town  is 
perfectly  flat,  and  in  old  times  the  mud  was  in 
tolerable,  but  the  trees  are  a  continuing  glory. 
Central  Indiana  was  not,  in  1820,  when  the 
first  cabin  was  built,  a  region  of  unalloyed  de 
light.  The  land  was  rich,  but  it  was  covered 
with  heavy  woods,  and  much  of  it  was  under 
water.  Indians  still  roamed  the  forests,  and  the 
builder  of  the  first  cabin  was  killed  by  them. 
There  were  no  roads,  and  White  River,  on 
whose  eastern  shore  the  town  was  built,  was 
navigable  only  by  the  smallest  craft.  Mrs. 
Beecher,  in  "From  Dawn  to  Daylight,"  de 
scribed  the  region  as  it  appeared  in  the  forties : 
"  It  is  a  level  stretch  of  land  as  far  as  the  eye 

60 


A  Provincial  Capital 

can  reach,  looking  as  if  one  good,  thorough  rain 
would  transform  it  into  an  impassable  morass. 
How  the  inhabitants  contrive  to  get  about  in 
rainy  weather,  I  can't  imagine,  unless  they  use 
stilts.  The  city  itself  has  been  redeemed  from 
this  slough,  and  presents  quite  a  thriving  ap 
pearance,  being  very  prettily  laid  out,  with  a 
number  of  fine  buildings."  Dr.  Eggleston, 
writing  in  his  novel  "  Roxy  "  of  the  same  period, 
lays  stress  on  the  saffron  hue  of  the  commun 
ity,  the  yellow  mud  seeming  to  cover  all 
things  animate  and  inanimate. 

But  the  founders  possessed  faith,  courage, 
and  hardihood,  and  "the  capital  in  the  woods" 
grew  steadily.  The  pioneers  were  patriotic  and 
religious;  their  patriotism  was,  indeed,  touched 
with  the  zeal  of  their  religion.  For  many  years 
before  the  Civil  War  a  parade  of  the  Sunday- 
school  children  of  the  city  was  the  chief  feature 
of  every  Fourth  of  July  celebration.  The  found 
ers  labored  from  the  first  in  the  interest  of 
morality  and  enlightenment.  The  young  capi 
tal  was  a  converging  point  for  a  slender  stream 
of  population  that  bore  in  from  New  England, 
and  a  broader  current  that  swept  westward 

61 


A  Provincial  Capital 

from  the  Middle  and  Southeastern  States. 
There  was  no  sectional  feeling  in  those  days. 
Many  of  the  prominent  settlers  from  Ken 
tucky  were  Whigs,  but  a  newcomer's  church 
affiliation  was  of  far  more  importance  than  his 
political  belief.  Membership  in  a  church  was  a 
social  recommendation  in  old  times,  but  the 
importance  of  religion  seemed  to  diminish  as 
the  town  passed  the  two-hundred-thousand 
mark.  Perhaps  two  hundred  thousand  is  the 
dead-line  —  I  hope  no  one  will  press  me  too 
hard  to  defend  this  suggestion  —  beyond  which 
a  community  loses  its  pristine  sensitiveness  to 
benignant  influences;  but  there  was  indubit 
ably  in  the  history  of  our  capital  a  moment  at 
which  we  became  disagreeably  conscious  that 
we  were  no  longer  a  few  simple  arid  well- 
meaning  folk  who  made  no  social  engagements 
that  would  interfere  with  Thursday  night 
prayer  meeting,  but  a  corporation  of  which 
we  were  only  unconsidered  and  unimportant 
members. 

The  effect  of  the  Civil  War  upon  Indianapo 
lis  was  immediate  and  far-reaching.  It  empha 
sized,  through  the  centralizing  there  of  the 

62 


A  Provincial  Capital 

State's  military  energy,  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
capital  city,  —  a  fact  which  until  that  time 
had  been  accepted  languidly  by  the  average 
Hoosier  countryman.  The  presence  within  the 
State  of  an  aggressive  body  of  sympathizers 
with  Southern  ideas  directed  attention  through 
out  the  country  to  the  energy  and  resourceful 
ness  of  Morton,  the  War  Governor,  who  pursued 
the  Hoosier  Copperheads  relentlessly,  while 
raising  a  great  army  to  send  to  the  seat  of  war. 
Again,  the  intense  political  bitterness  engen 
dered  by  the  war  did  not  end  with  peace,  or  with 
the  restoration  of  good  feeling  in  neighboring 
States,  but  continued  for  twenty-five  years 
more  to  be  a  source  of  political  irritation,  and, 
markedly  at  Indianapolis,  a  cause  of  social  dif 
ferentiation.  In  the  minds  of  many,  a  Democrat 
was  a  Copperhead,  and  a  Copperhead  was  an 
evil  and  odious  thing.  Referring  to  the  slow 
death  of  this  feeling,  a  veteran  observer  of  af 
fairs  who  had,  moreover,  supported  Mr.  Cleve 
land's  candidacy  twice,  recently  said  that  he 
had  never  been  able  wholly  to  free  himself  from 
this  prejudice.  But  the  end  really  came  in  1884, 
with  the  reaction  against  Elaine,  which  was 


A  Provincial  Capital 

nowhere  more  significant  of  the  flowering  of 
independence  than  at  Indianapolis. 

Following  the  formative  period,  which  may 
be  said  to  have  ended  with  the  Civil  War,  came 
an  era  of  prosperity  in  business,  and  even  of 
splendor  in  social  matters.  Some  handsome 
habitations  had  been  built  in  the  ante-bellum 
days,  but  they  were  at  once  surpassed  by  the 
homes  which  many  citizens  reared  for  them 
selves  in  the  seventies.  These  remain,  as  a 
group,  the  handsomest  residences  that  have 
been  built  at  any  period  in  the  history  of  the 
city.  Life  had  been  earnest  in  the  early  days, 
but  it  now  became  picturesque.  The  terms 
"aristocrats"  and  "first  families"  were  heard 
in  the  community,  and  something  of  tradi 
tional  Southern  ampleness  and  generosity  crept 
into  the  way  of  life.  No  one  said  nouveau  riche 
in  those  days;  the  first  families  were  the  real 
thing.  No  one  denied  it,  and  misfortune  could 
not  shake  or  destroy  them. 

A  panic  is  a  stern  teacher  of  humility,  and 
the  financial  depression  that  fell  upon  the 
country  in  1873  drove  the  lesson  home  remorse 
lessly  at  Indianapolis.  There  had  been  nothing 


A  Provincial  Capital 

equivocal  about  the  boom.  Western  speculat 
ors  had  not  always  had  a  fifty-year-old  town  to 
operate  in,  —  the  capital  of  a  State,  a  natural 
railway  centre,  —  no  arid  village  in  a  hot 
prairie,  but  a  real  forest  city  that  thundered 
mightily  in  the  prospectus.  There  was  no  sud 
den  collapse;  a  brave  effort  was  made  to  ward 
off  the  day  of  reckoning;  but  this  only  pro 
longed  the  agony.  Among  the  victims  there 
was  little  whimpering.  A  thoroughbred  has  not 
proved  his  mettle  until  he  has  held  up  his  head 
in  defeat,  and  the  Hoosier  aristocrat  went  down 
with  his  flag  flying.  Those  that  had  suffered 
the  proud  man's  contumely  then  came  forth  to 
sneer.  An  old-fashioned  butternut  Democrat 
remarked,  of  a  banker  who  failed,  that  "no 
wonder  Blank  busted  when  he  drove  to  busi 
ness  in  a  carriage  behind  a  nigger  in  uniform." 
The  memory  of  the  hard  times  lingered  long  at 
home  and  abroad.  A  town  where  credit  could 
be  so  shaken  was  not,  the  Eastern  insurance 
companies  declared,  a  safe  place  for  further 
investments;  and  in  many  quarters  Indiana 
polis  was  not  forgiven  until  an  honest, 
substantial  growth  had  carried  the  lines  of 

65 


A  Provincial  Capital 

the  city  beyond   the   terra  incognita  of  the 
boom's  outer  rim. 

Many  of  the  striking  characteristics  of  the 
true  Indianapolitan  are  attributable  to  those 
days,  when  the  city's  bounds  were  moved  far 
countryward,  to  the  end  that  the  greatest  pos 
sible  number  of  investors  might  enjoy  the 
ownership  of  town  lots.  The  signal  effect  of 
this  dark  time  was  to  stimulate  thrift  and 
bring  a  new  era  of  caution  and  conservatism; 
for  there  is  a  good  deal  of  Scotch-Irish  in  the 
Hoosier,  and  he  cannot  be  fooled  twice  with 
the  same  bait.  During  the  period  of  depression 
the  town  lost  its  zest  for  gayety.  It  took  its 
pleasures  a  little  soberly;  it  was  notorious  as  a 
town  that  welcomed  theatrical  attractions 
grudgingly,  though  this  attitude  must  be  re 
ferred  back  also  to  the  religious  prejudices  of 
the  early  comers.  Your  Indianapolitan  who 
has  personal  knowledge  of  the  panic,  or  who 
had  listened  to  the  story  of  it  from  one  who 
weathered  the  storm,  has  never  forgotten 
the  discipline  of  the  seventies :  though  he  has 
reached  the  promised  land,  he  still  remembers 
the  hot  sun  in  the  tyrant's  brickyards.  So  con- 

66 


A  Provincial  Capital 

servatism  became  the  city's  rule  of  life.  The 
panic  of  1893  caused  scarcely  a  ripple,  and  the 
typical  Indianapolis  business  man  to  this  day 
is  one  who  minds  his  barometer  carefully. 

Indianapolis  became  a  city  rather  against 
its  will.  It  liked  its  own  way,  and  its  way 
was  slow;  but  when  the  calamity  could  no 
longer  be  averted,  it  had  its  trousers  creased 
and  its  shoes  polished,  and  accepted  with 
good  grace  the  fact  that  its  population  had 
reached  two  hundred  thousand,  and  that  it 
had  crept  to  a  place  comfortably  near  the  top 
in  the  list  of  bank  clearances.  A  man  who  left 
Indianapolis  in  1885,  returned  in  1912  —  the 
Indianapolitan,  like  the  cat  in  the  ballad,  al 
ways  comes  back;  he  cannot  successfully  be 
transplanted  —  to  find  himself  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  city.  Once  he  knew  all  the  people  who 
rode  in  chaises;  but  on  his  return  he  found  new 
people  flying  about  in  automobiles  that  cost 
more  than  any  but  the  most  prosperous  citizen 
earned  in  the  horse-car  days;  once  he  had  been 
able  to  discuss  current  topics  with  a  passing 
friend  in  the  middle  of  Washington  Street; 
now  he  must  duck  and  dive,  and  keep  an  eye 


A  Provincial  Capital 

on  the  policeman  if  he  would  make  a  safe 
crossing.  He  is  asked  to  luncheon  at  a  club;  in 
the  old  days  there  were  no  clubs,  or  they  were 
looked  on  as  iniquitous  things;  he  is  carried 
off  to  inspect  factories  which  are  the  largest 
of  their  kind  in  the  world.  At  the  railroad  yards 
he  watches  the  loading  of  machinery  for  ship 
ment  to  Russia  and  Chili,  and  he  is  driven 
over  asphalt  streets  to  parks  that  had  not 
been  dreamed  of  before  his  term  of  exile. 

Manufacturing  is  the  great  business  of  the 
city,  still  sootily  advertised  on  the  local  coun 
tenance  in  spite  of  heroic  efforts  to  enforce 
smoke-abatement  ordinances.  There  are  nearly 
two  thousand  establishments  within  its  limits 
where  manufacturing  in  some  form  is  carried 
on.  Many  of  these  rose  in  the  day  of  natural 
gas,  and  it  was  predicted  that  when  the  gas  had 
been  exhausted  the  city  would  lose  them;  but 
the  number  has  increased  steadily  despite  the 
failure  of  the  gas  supply.  There  are  abundant 
coal-fields  within  the  State,  so  that  the  ques 
tion  of  fuel  will  not  soon  be  troublesome.  The 
city  enjoys,  also,  the  benefits  to  be  derived 
from  the  numerous  manufactories  in  other 

68 


A  Provincial  Capital 

towns  of  central  Indiana,  many  of  which  main 
tain  administrative  offices  there.  It  is  not  only 
a  good  place  in  which  to  make  things,  but  a 
point  from  which  many  things  may  be  sold  to 
advantage.  Jobbing  flourished  even  before 
manufacturing  attained  its  present  propor 
tions.  The  jobbers  have  given  the  city  an  envi 
able  reputation  for  enterprise  and  fair  dealing. 
When  you  ask  an  Indianapolis  jobber  whether 
the  propinquity  of  St.  Louis,  Cincinnati,  Chi 
cago,  and  Cleveland  is  not  against  him,  he 
answers  that  he  meets  his  competitors  daily  in 
every  part  of  the  country  and  is  not  afraid  of 
them. 

Indianapolis  was  long  a  place  of  industry, 
thrift,  and  comfort,  where  the  simple  life  was 
not  only  possible  but  necessary.  Its  social  en 
tertainments  were  of  the  tamest  sort,  and  the 
change  in  this  respect  has  come  only  within  a 
few  years,  —  with  the  great  wave  of  growth 
and  prosperity  that  has  wrought  a  new  Indiana 
polis  from  the  old.  If  left  to  itself,  the  old 
Indianapolis  would  never  have  known  a  horse 
show  or  a  carnival,  — would  never  have  strewn 
itself  with  confetti,  or  boasted  the  greatest 

69 


A  Provincial  Capital 

automobile  speedway  in  the  world;  but  the 
invading  time-spirit  has  rapidly  destroyed  the 
walls  of  the  city  of  tradition.  Business  men  no 
longer  go  home  to  dinner  at  twelve  o'clock  and 
take  a  nap  before  returning  to  work;  and  the 
old  amiable  habit  of  visiting  for  an  hour  in  an 
office  where  ten  minutes  of  business  was  to  be 
transacted  has  passed.  A  town  is  at  last  a  city 
when  sociability  has  been  squeezed  out  of 
business  and  appointments  are  arranged  a  day 
in  advance  by  telephone. 

The  distinguishing  quality  of  Indianapolis 
continues,  however,  to  be  its  simple  domestic 
ity.  The  people  are  home-loving  and  home- 
keeping.  In  the  early  days,  when  the  town  was 
a  rude  capital  in  the  wilderness,  the  citizens 
stayed  at  home  perforce;  and  when  the  railroad 
reached  them  they  did  not  take  readily  to 
travel.  A  trip  to  New  York  is  still  a  much  more 
serious  event,  considered  from  Indianapolis, 
than  from  Denver  or  Kansas  City.  It  was  an 
Omaha  young  man  who  was  so  little  appalled 
by  distance  that,  having  an  express  frank,  he 
formed  the  habit  of  sending  his  laundry  work 
to  New  York,  to  assure  a  certain  finish  to  his 

70 


A  Provincial  Capital 

linen  that  was  unattainable  at  home.  The  more 
the  Hoosier  travels,  the  more  he  likes  his  own 
town.  Only  a  little  while  ago  an  Indianapolis 
man  who  had  been  in  New  York  for  a  week 
went  to  the  theatre  and  saw  there  a  fellow- 
townsman  who  had  just  arrived.  He  hurried 
around  to  greet  him  at  the  end  of  the  first  act. 
"Tell  me,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  is  everything 
in  old  Indianapolis?" 

The  Hoosiers  assemble  at  Indianapolis  in 
great  throngs  with  slight  excuse.  In  addition 
to  the  steam  railroads  that  radiate  in  every 
direction  interurban  traction  lines  have  lately 
knit  new  communities  into  sympathetic  rela 
tionship  with  the  capital.  One  may  see  the 
real  Hoosier  in  the  traction  station,  —  and  an 
ironed-out,  brushed  and  combed  Hoosier  he  is 
found  to  be.  You  may  read  the  names  of  all  the 
surrounding  towns  on  the  big  interurban  cars 
that  mingle  with  the  local  traction  traffic. 
They  bring  men  whose  errand  is  to  buy  or  sell, 
or  who  come  to  play  golf  on  the  free  course  at 
Riverside  Park,  or  on  the  private  grounds  of 
the  Country  Club.  The  country  women  join 
their  sisters  of  the  city  in  attacks  upon  the  bar- 

71 


A  Provincial  Capital 

gain  counters.  These  cars  disfigure  the  streets, 
but  no  one  has  made  serious  protest,  for  are 
not  the  Hoosiers  welcome  to  their  capital,  no 
matter  how  or  when  they  visit  it;  and  is  not 
this  free  intercourse,  as  the  phrase  has  it,  "a 
good  thing  for  Indianapolis"?  This  contact 
between  town  and  country  tends  to  stimulate 
a  state  feeling,  and  as  the  capital  grows  this 
intimacy  will  have  an  increasing  value. 

There  is  something  neighborly  and  cozy 
about  Indianapolis.  The  man  across  the  street 
or  next  door  will  share  any  good  thing  he  has 
with  you,  whether  it  be  a  cure  for  rheumatism, 
a  new  book,  or  the  garden  hose.  It  is  a  town 
where  doing  as  one  likes  is  not  a  mere  possibil 
ity,  but  an  inherent  right.  The  woman  of  Indi 
anapolis  is  not  afraid  to  venture  abroad  with 
her  market-basket,  albeit  she  may  carry  it  in 
an  automobile.  The  public  market  at  Indiana 
polis  is  an  ancient  and  honorable  institution, 
and  there  is  no  shame  but  much  honor  in  being 
seen  there  in  conversation  with  the  farmer 
and  the  gardener  or  the  seller  of  herbs,  in  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning.  The  market  is  so 
thoroughly  established  in  public  affection  that 

72 


A  Provincial  Capital 

the  society  reporter  walks  its  aisles  in  pursuit 
of  news.  The  true  Indianapolis  housewife  goes 
to  market;  the  mere  resident  of  the  city  orders 
by  telephone,  and  meekly  accepts  what  the 
grocer  has  to  offer;  and  herein  lies  a  differ 
ence  that  is  not  half  so  superficial  as  it  may 
sound,  for  at  heart  the  people  who  are  related 
to  the  history  and  tradition  of  Indianapolis 
are  simple  and  frugal,  and  if  they  read  Emerson 
and  Browning  by  the  evening  lamp,  they  know 
no  reason  why  they  should  not  distinguish, 
the  next  morning,  between  the  yellow-legged 
chicken  offered  by  the  farmer's  wife  at  the 
market  and  frozen  fowls  of  doubtful  authenticity 
that  have  been  held  for  a  season  in  cold  storage. 
The  narrow  margin  between  the  great  par 
ties  in  Indiana  has  made  the  capital  a  centre  of 
incessant  political  activity.  The  geographical 
position  of  the  city  has  also  contributed  to  this, 
the  state  leaders  and  managers  being  constant 
visitors.  Every  second  man  you  meet  is  a 
statesman;  every  third  man  is  an  orator.  The 
largest  social  club  in  Indiana  exacts  a  promise 
of  fidelity  to  the  Republican  party,  —  or  did, 
until  insurgency  made  the  close  scrutiny  of  the 

73 


A  Provincial  Capital 

members'  partisanship  impolite  if  not  impol 
itic  !  —  and  within  its  portals  chances  and 
changes  of  men  and  measures  are  discussed 
tirelessly.  And  the  pilgrim  is  not  bored  with 
local  aifairs;  not  a  bit  of  it!  Municipal  dangers 
do  not  trouble  the  Indianapolitan;  his  eye  is 
on  the  White  House,  not  the  town  hall.  The 
presence  in  the  city  through  many  years  of 
men  of  national  prominence — Morton,  Har 
rison,  Hendricks,  McDonald,  English,  Gresham, 
Turpie,  of  the  old  order,  and  Fairbanks,  Kern, 
Beveridge,  and  Marshall  in  recent  years  —  has 
kept  Indianapolis  to  the  fore  as  a  political 
centre.  Geography  is  an  important  factor  in 
the  distribution  of  favors  by  state  conven 
tions.  Rivalry  between  the  smaller  towns  is 
not  so  marked  as  their  united  stand  against 
the  capital,  though  this  feeling  seems  to  be 
abating.  The  city  has  had,  at  least  twice, 
both  United  States  Senators;  but  governors 
have  usually  been  summoned  from  the  coun 
try.  Harrison  was  defeated  for  governor  by  a 
farmer  (1876),  in  a  heated  campaign,  in  which 
"Kid-Gloved  Harrison"  was  held  up  to  deri 
sion  by  the  adherents  of  "Blue- Jeans  Will- 

74 


A  Provincial  Capital 

iams."  And  again,  in  1880,  a  similar  situation 
was  presented  in  the  contest  for  the  same  office 
between  Albert  G.  Porter  and  Franklin  Land 
ers,  both  of  Indianapolis,  though  Landers  stood 
ruggedly  for  the  "blue  jeans"  idea. 

The  high  tide  of  political  interest  was 
reached  in  the  summer  and  fall  of  1888,  when 
Harrison  made  his  campaign  for  the  presidency, 
largely  from  his  own  doorstep.  Marion  County, 
of  which  Indianapolis  is  the  seat,  was  for  many 
years  Republican ;  but  neither  county  nor  city 
has  lately  been  "safely"  Democratic  or  Re 
publican.  At  the  city  election  held  in  October, 
1904,  a  Democrat  was  elected  mayor  over  a 
Republican  candidate  who  had  been  renomi- 
nated  in  a  "snap"  convention,  in  the  face  of 
aggressive  opposition  within  his  party.  The 
issue  was  tautly  drawn  between  corruption 
and  vice  on  the  one  hand  and  law  and  order 
on  the  other.  An  independent  candidate,  who 
had  also  the  Prohibition  support,  received 
over  five  thousand  votes. 

The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  securing  in 
telligent  and  honest  city  government  have, 
however,  multiplied  with  the  growth  of  the 

75 


A  Provincial  Capital 

city.  The  American  municipal  problem  is 
as  acutely  presented  in  Indianapolis  as  else 
where.  The  more  prosperous  a  city  the  less 
time  have  the  beneficiaries  of  its  prosperity  for 
self-government.  It  is  much  simpler  to  allow 
politicians  of  gross  incapacity  and  leagued  with 
vice  to  levy  taxes  and  expend  the  income  ac 
cording  to  the  devices  and  desires  of  their  own 
hearts  and  pockets  than  to  find  reputable  and 
patriotic  citizens  to  administer  the  business. 
Here  as  elsewhere  the  party  system  is  indubit 
ably  at  the  root  of  the  evil.  It  happens,  indeed, 
that  Indianapolis  is  even  more  the  victim  of 
partisanship  than  other  cities  of  approxim 
ately  the  same  size  for  the  reason  that  both 
the  old  political  organizations  feel  that  the  loss 
of  the  city  at  a  municipal  election  jeopardizes 
the  chances  of  success  in  general  elections. 
Just  what  effect  the  tariff  and  other  national 
issues  have  upon  street  cleaning  and  the  polic 
ing  of  a  city  has  never  been  explained.  It  is 
interesting  to  note  that  the  park  board,  whose 
members  serve  without  pay,  has  been,  since 
the  adoption  of  the  city  charter,  a  commission 
of  high  intelligence  and  unassailable  integrity. 


A  Provincial  Capital 

The  standard  having  been  so  established  no 
mayor  is  likely  soon  to  venture  to  consign  this 
board's  important  and  responsible  functions  to 
the  common  type  of  city  hall  hangers-on. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  maddening  of  the  anom 
alies  of  American  life  that  municipal  pride 
should  exhaust  its  energy  in  the  exploitation 
of  factory  sites  and  the  strident  advertisement 
of  the  number  of  freight  cars  handled  in  rail 
road  yards,  while  the  municipal  corporation 
itself  is  turned  over  to  any  band  of  charlatans 
and  buccaneers  that  may  seek  to  capture  it.  In 
191 1 -i  2  the  municipal  government  had  reached 
the  lowest  ebb  in  the  city's  history.  It  had  be 
come  so  preposterous  and  improvement  was  so 
imperatively  demanded  that  many  citizens, 
both  as  individuals  and  in  organizations,  began 
to  interest  themselves  in  plans  for  reform.  The 
hope  here  as  elsewhere  seems  to  be  in  the  young 
men,  particularly  of  the  college  type,  who  find 
in  local  government  a  fine  exercise  for  their 
talents  and  zeal. 

In  this  connection  it  may  be  said  that  the 
Indianapolis  public  schools  owe  their  marked 
excellence  and  efficiency  to  their  complete  di- 

77 


A  Provincial  Capital 

vorcement  from  political  influence.  This  has 
not  only  assured  the  public  an  intelligent  and 
honest  expenditure  of  school  funds,  but  it  has 
created  a  corps  spirit  among  the  city's  teach 
ers,  admirable  in  itself,  and  tending  to  cumu 
lative  benefits  not  yet  realized.  The  superin 
tendent  of  schools  has  absolute  power  of 
appointment,  and  he  is  accountable  only  to  the 
commissioners,  and  they  in  turn  are  entirely 
independent  of  the  mayor  and  other  city  of 
ficers.  Positions  on  the  school  board  are  not 
sought  by  politicians.  The  incumbents  serve 
without  pay,  and  the  public  evince  a  disposi 
tion  to  find  good  men  and  to  keep  them  in  office. 
The  soldiers'  monument  at  Indianapolis  is 
a  testimony  to  the  deep  impression  made  by 
the  Civil  War  on  the  people  of  the  State.  The 
monument  is  to  Indianapolis  what  the  Wash 
ington  Monument  is  to  the  national  capital. 
The  incoming  traveler  beholds  it  afar,  and 
within  the  city  it  is  almost  an  inescapable 
thing,  though  with  the  advent  of  the  sky 
scraper  it  is  rapidly  losing  its  fine  dignity  as 
the  chief  incident  of  the  skyline.  It  stands  in  a 
circular  plaza  that  was  originally  a  park  known 

78 


A  Provincial  Capital 

as  the  "Governor's  Circle."  This  was  long  ago 
abandoned  as  a  site  for  the  governor's  mansion, 
but  it  offered  an  ideal  spot  for  a  monument  to 
Indiana  soldiers,  when,  in  1887,  the  General 
Assembly  authorized  its  construction.  The 
height  of  the  monument  from  the  street  level 
is  two  hundred  and  eighty-four  feet  and  it 
stands  on  a  stone  terrace  one  hundred  and  ten 
feet  in  diameter.  The  shaft  is  crowned  by  a 
statue  of  Victory  thirty-eight  feet  high.  It  is 
built  throughout  of  Indiana  limestone.  The 
fountains  at  the  base,  the  heroic  sculptured 
groups  "War"  and  "Peace,"  and  the  bronze 
astragals  representing  the  army  and  navy,  are 
admirable  in  design  and  execution.  The  whole 
effect  is  one  of  poetic  beauty  and  power. 
There  is  nothing  cheap,  tawdry,  or  common 
place  in  this  magnificent  tribute  of  Indiana  to 
her  soldiers.  The  monument  is  a  memorial  of 
the  soldiers  of  all  the  wars  in  which  Indiana  has 
participated.  The  veterans  of  the  Civil  War 
protested  against  this,  and  the  controversy 
was  long  and  bitter;  but  the  capture  of  Vin- 
cennes  from  the  British  in  177915  made  to  link 
Indiana  to  the  war  of  the  Revolution;  and  the 

79 


A  Provincial  Capital 

Battle  of  Tippecanoe,  to  the  war  of  1812.  The 
war  with  Mexico,  and  seven  thousand  four 
hundred  men  enlisted  for  the  Spanish  War  are 
likewise  remembered.  It  is,  however,  the  war 
of  the  Rebellion,  whose  effect  on  the  social  and 
political  life  of  Indiana  was  so  tremendous, 
that  gives  the  monument  its  great  cause  for 
being.  The  white  male  population  of  Indiana 
in  1860  was  693,348;  the  total  enlistment  of 
soldiers  during  the  ensuing  years  of  war  was 
210,497!  The  names  of  these  men  lie  safe  for 
posterity  in  the  base  of  the  gray  shaft. 

The  newspaper  paragrapher  has  in  recent 
years  amused  himself  at  the  expense  of  Indi 
ana  as  a  literary  centre,  but  Indianapolis  as  a 
village  boasted  writers  of  at  least  local  repu 
tation,  and  Coggeshall's  "Poets  and  Poetry 
of  the  West"  (1867)  attributes  half  a  dozen 
poets  to  the  Hoosier  capital.  The  Indianapolis 
press  has  from  the  beginning  been  distinguished 
by  enterprise  and  decency,  and  in  several  in 
stances  by  vigorous  independence.  The  literary 
quality  of  the  city's  newspapers  was  high,  even 
in  the  early  days,  and  the  standard  has  not  been 
lowered.  Poets  with  cloaks  and  canes  were,  in 

80 


A  Provincial  Capital 

the  eighties,  pretty  prevalent  in  Market  Street 
near  the  post-office,  the  habitat  then  of  most 
of  the  newspapers.  The  poets  read  their  verses 
to  one  another  and  cursed  the  magazines.  A 
reporter  for  one  of  the  papers,  who  had  scored 
the  triumph  of  a  poem  in  the  "Atlantic,"  was 
a  man  of  mark  among  the  guild  for  years.  The 
local  wits  stabbed  the  fledgeling  bards  with 
their  gentle  ironies.  A  young  woman  of  social 
prominence  printed  some  verses  in  an  Indian 
apolis  newspaper,  and  one  of  her  acquaint 
ances,  when  asked  for  his  opinion  of  them, 
said  they  were  creditable  and  ought  to  be  set 
to  music  —  and  played  as  an  instrumental 
piece!  The  wide  popularity  attained  by  Mr. 
James  Whitcomb  Riley  quickened  the  literary 
impulse,  and  the  fame  of  his  elders  and  pre 
decessors  suffered  severely  from  the  fact  that 
he  did  not  belong  to  the  cloaked  brigade. 
General  Lew  Wallace  never  lived  at  Indiana 
polis  save  for  a  few  years  in  boyhood,  while 
his  father  was  governor,  though  toward  the 
end  of  his  life  he  spent  his  winters  there. 
Maurice  Thompson's  muse  scorned  "paven 
ground,"  and  he  was  little  known  at  the  capital 

81 


A  Provincial  Capital 

even  during  his  term  of  office  as  state  geologist, 
when  he  came  to  town  frequently  from  his  home 
in  Crawfordsville.  Mr.  Booth  Tarkington,  the 
most  cosmopolitan  of  Hoosiers,  has  lifted  the 
banner  anew  for  a  younger  generation  through 
his  successful  essays  in  fiction  and  the  drama. 
If  you  do  not  in  this  provincial  capital  meet 
an  author  at  every  corner,  you  are  at  least  never 
safe  from  men  and  women  who  read  books.  In 
many  Missouri  River  towns  a  stranger  must 
still  listen  to  the  old  wail  against  the  railroads ; 
at  Indianapolis  he  must  listen  to  politics,  and 
possibly  some  one  will  ask  his  opinion  of  a  son 
net,  just  as  though  it  were  a  cigar.  A  judge  of 
the  United  States  Court  sitting  at  Indianapo 
lis,  was  in  the  habit  of  locking  the  door  of  his 
private  office  and  reading  Horace  to  visiting 
attorneys.  There  was,  indeed,  a  time — consule 
Planco  — when  most  of  the  federal  officeholders 
at  Indianapolis  were  bookish  men.  Three  suc 
cessive  clerks  of  the  federal  courts  were  schol 
ars;  the  pension  agent  was  an  enthusiastic 
Shakespearean;  the  district  attorney  was  a 
poet;  and  the  master  of  chancery  a  man  of 
varied  learning,  who  was  so  excellent  a  talker 

82 


A  Provincial  Capital 

that,  when  he  met  Lord  Chief  Justice  Coleridge 
abroad,  the  English  jurist  took  the  Hoosier 
with  him  on  circuit,  and  wrote  to  the  justice  of 
the  American  Supreme  Court  who  had  intro 
duced  them,  to  "send  me  another  man  as 
good." 

It  is  possible  for  a  community  which  may 
otherwise  lack  a  true  local  spirit  to  be  unified 
through  the  possession  of  a  sense  of  humor;  and 
even  in  periods  of  financial  depression  the  town 
has  always  enjoyed  the  saving  grace  of  a  cheer 
ful,  centralized  intelligence.  The  first  tavern 
philosophers  stood  for  this,  and  the  courts  of 
the  early  times  were  enlivened  by  it,  —  as  wit 
ness  all  Western  chronicles.  The  Middle  West 
ern  people  are  preeminently  humorous,  particu 
larly  those  of  the  Southern  strain  from  which 
Lincoln  sprang.  During  all  the  years  that  the 
Hoosier  suffered  the  reproach  of  the  outside 
world,  the  citizen  of  the  capital  never  failed  to 
appreciate  the  joke  when  it  was  on  himself;  and 
looking  forth  from  the  wicket  of  the  city  gate, 
he  was  still  more  keenly  appreciative  when  it 
was  "on"  his  neighbors.  The  Hoosier  is  a 
natural  story-teller;  he  relishes  a  joke,  and  to 

83 


A  Provincial  Capital 

talk  is  his  ideal  of  social  enjoyment.  This  was 
true  of  the  early  Hoosier,  and  it  is  true  to-day 
of  his  successor  at  the  capital.  The  Monday 
night  meetings  of  the  Indianapolis  Literary 
Club  —  organized  in  1877  and  with  a  continu 
ous  existence  to  this  time  —  have  been  marked 
by  racy  talk.  The  original  members  are  nearly 
all  gone;  but  the  sayings  of  a  group  of  them  — 
the  stiletto  thrusts  of  Fishback,  the  lawyer;  the 
droll  inadvertences  of  Livingston  Rowland,  the 
judge;  and  the  inimitable  anecdotes  of  Myron 
Reed,  soldier  and  preacher  —  crept  beyond  the 
club's  walls  and  became  town  property.  This 
club  is  old  and  well  seasoned.  It  is  exclusive  - 
so  much  so  that  one  of  its  luminaries  remarked 
that  if  all  of  its  members  should  be  expelled  for 
any  reason,  none  could  hope  to  be  readmitted. 
It  has  entertained  but  four  pilgrims  from  the 
outer  world,  —  Matthew  Arnold,  Dean  Farrar, 
Joseph  Parker,  and  John  Fiske. 

The  Hoosier  capital  has  always  been  sus 
ceptible  to  the  charms  of  oratory.  Most  of  the 
great  lecturers  in  the  golden  age  of  the  Ameri 
can  lyceum  were  welcomed  cordially  at  Indiana 
polis.  The  Indianapolis  pulpit  has  been  served 


A  Provincial  Capital 

by  many  able  men,  and  great  store  is  still  set  by 
preaching.  When  Henry  Ward  Beecher  min 
istered  to  the  congregation  of  the  Second  Pres 
byterian  Church  (1838-46),  his  superior  talents 
were  recognized  and  appreciated.  He  gave  a 
series  of  seven  lectures  to  the  young  men  of  the 
city  during  the  winter  of  1843-44,  on  such  sub 
jects  as  "Industry,"  "Gamblers  and  Gam 
bling,"  "Popular  Amusements,"  etc.,  which 
were  published  at  Indianapolis  immediately,  in 
response  to  an  urgent  request  signed  by  thir 
teen  prominent  citizens. 

The  women  of  Indianapolis  have  aided 
greatly  in  fashioning  the  city  into  an  enlight 
ened  community.  The  wives  and  daughters  of 
the  founders  were  often  women  of  cultivation, 
and  much  in  the  character  of  the  city  to-day  is 
plainly  traceable  to  their  work  and  example. 
During  the  Civil  War  they  did  valiant  service  in 
caring  for  the  Indiana  soldier.  They  built  for 
themselves  in  1888  a  building  —  the  Propy- 
laeum  —  where  many  clubs  meet ;  and  they  were 
long  the  mainstay  of  the  Indianapolis  Art  Asso 
ciation,  which,  by  a  generous  and  unexpected 
bequest  a  few  years  ago,  now  boasts  a  perma- 

85 


A  Provincial  Capital 

nent  museum  and  school.  It  is  worth  remem 
bering  that  the  first  woman's  club  —  in  the 
West,  at  least  —  was  organized  on  Hoosier  soil 
—  at  Robert  Owen's  New  Harmony  —  in  1859. 
The  women  of  the  Hoosier  capital  have  ad 
dressed  themselves  zealously  in  many  organiza 
tions  to  the  study  of  all  subjects  related  to  good 
government.  The  apathy  bred  of  commercial 
success  that  has  dulled  the  civic  consciousness 
of  their  fathers  and  husbands  and  brothers  has 
had  the  effect  of  stimulating  their  curiosity  and 
quickening  their  energies  along  lines  of  political 
and  social  development. 

I  have  been  retouching  here  and  there  this 
paper  as  it  was  written  ten  years  ago.  In  the 
intervening  decade  the  population  of  Indiana 
polis  has  increased  38.1  per  cent,  jumping  from 
169,161  to  233,650,  and  passing  both  Provid 
ence  and  Louisville.  Something  of  the  South 
ern  languor  that  once  seemed  so  charming  — 
something  of  what  the  plodding  citizens  of  the 
mule-car  days  liked  to  call  "atmosphere" 
has  passed.  And  yet  the  changes  are,  after  all, 
chiefly  such  as  address  the  eye  rather  than  the 

86 


A  Provincial  Capital 

spirit.  There  are  more  people,  but  there  are 
more  good  people!  The  coming  of  the  army 
post  has  widened  our  political  and  social  hori 
zons.  The  building  of  the  Homeric  speedway 
that  has  caused  us  to  be  written  large  on  the 
world's  pink  sporting  pages,  and  the  invasion  of 
foreigners,  have  not  seriously  disturbed  the  old 
neighborliness,  kindliness,  and  homely  cheer. 
Elsewhere  in  these  pages  I  mention  the  pass 
ing  of  the  church  as  the  bulwark  behind  which 
this  community  had  intrenched  itself;  and  yet 
much  the  same  spirituality  that  was  once  ob 
servable  endures,  though  known  by  new  names. 
The  old  virtues  must  still  be  dominant,  for 
visitors  sensitive  to  such  impressions  seem  to  be 
conscious  of  their  existence.  Only  to-day  Mr. 
Arnold  Bennett,  discoursing  of  America  in 
"  Harper's  Magazine,"  finds  here  exactly  the 
things  whose  passing  it  is  the  local  fashion  to 
deplore.  In  our  maple-lined  streets  he  was 
struck  by  the  number  of  detached  houses,  each 
with  its  own  garden.  He  found  in  these  homes 
"the  expression  of  a  race  incapable  of  looking 
foolish,  of  being  giddy,  of  running  to  extremes." 
And  I  am  cheered  by  his  declaration  of  a  belief 

87 


A  Provincial  Capital 

that  in  some  of  the  comfortable  parlors  of  our 
quiet  thoroughfares  there  are  "minor  million 
aires  who  wonder  whether,  outsoaring  the  am 
bition  of  a  bit  of  property,  they  would  be  justi 
fied  in  creeping  downtown  and  buying  a  cheap 
automobile!"  And  I  had  been  afraid  that  every 
man  among  us  with  anything  tangible  enough 
to  mortgage  had  undertaken  the  task  of  adver 
tising  one  of  our  chief  industries  by  moderniz 
ing  EzekiePs  vision  of  the  wheels ! 

It  is  cheering  to  know  that  this  pilgrim  from 
the  Five  Towns  thought  us  worthy  of  a  place  in 
his  odyssey,  and  that  his  snapshots  reveal  so 
much  of  what  my  accustomed  eyes  sometimes 
fail  to  see.  I  am  glad  to  be  reestablished  by  so 
penetrating  an  observer  in  my  old  faith  that 
there  are  planted  here  on  the  West  Fork  of 
White  River  some  of  the  roots  of  "essential 
America."  If  we  are  not  typical  Americans 
we  offer  the  nearest  approach  to  it  that  I,  in 
my  incurable  provincialism,  know  where  to  lay 
hands  on. 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

T  TSELESS,  quite  useless,  young  man,"  said 

\J  the  doctor,  pursing  his  lips;  and  as  he  has 

a  nice  feeling  for  climax,  he  slapped  the  reins  on 

Dobbin's  broad  back  and  placidly  drove  away. 

Beneath  that  flapping  gray  hat  his  wrinkled 
face  was  unusually  severe.  His  eyes  really 
seemed  to  flash  resentment  through  his  green 
spectacles.  The  doctor's  remark  related  to  my 
manipulation  of  a  new  rose-sprayer  which  I  had 
purchased  this  morning  at  the  village  hardware 
store,  and  was  directing  against  the  pests  on 
my  crimson  ramblers  when  he  paused  to  tell  me 
that  he  had  tried  that  identical  device  last  year 
and  found  it  worthless.  As  his  shabby  old  phae 
ton  rounded  the  corner,  I  turned  the  sprayer 
over  to  my  young  undergraduate  friend  Septi 
mus,  and  hurried  in  to  set  down  a  few  truths 
about  the  doctor. 

He  is,  as  you  may  already  have  guessed,  the 
venerable  Doctor  Experience,  of  the  well- 
known  university  that  bears  his  name.  He  is 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

a  person  of  quality  and  distinction,  and  the 
most  quoted  of  all  the  authorities  on  life  and 
conduct.  How  empty  the  day  would  be  in 
which  we  did  not  hear  some  one  say,  "Experi 
ence  has  taught  me — "  In  the  University  of 
Experience  the  Doctor  fills  all  the  chairs;  and 
all  his  utterances,  one  may  say,  are  ex  cathedra. 
He  is  as  respectable  for  purposes  of  quotation 
as  Thomas  a  Kempis  or  Benjamin  Franklin. 
We  really  imagine  —  we  who  are  alumni  of  the 
old  doctor's  ivy-mantled  knowledge-house,  and 
who  recall  the  austerity  of  his  curriculum  and 
the  frugality  of  Sunday  evening  tea  at  his 
table  —  that  his  own  courses  were  immensely 
profitable  to  us.  We  remember  well  how  he 
warned  us  against  yielding  to  the  persuasions 
of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil,  illustrating 
his  points  with  anecdotes  from  his  own  long  and 
honorable  career.  He  used  to  weep  over  us,  too, 
in  a  fashion  somewhat  dispiriting;  but  we  loved 
him,  and  sometimes  as  we  sit  in  the  winter  twi 
light  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more,  we 
recall  him  in  a  mood  of  affection  and  regret,  and 
do  not  mind  at  all  that  cheerless  motto  in  the 
seal  of  the  university  corporation,  "Exptritntia 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

docet  stultos"  to  which  he  invariably  calls  at 
tention  after  morning  prayers. 

"My  young  friends,"  he  says,  "I  hope  and 
trust  that  my  words  may  be  the  means  of  saving 
you  from  much  of  the  heartache  and  sorrow  of 
this  world.  When  I  was  young  — " 

This  phrase  is  the  widely  accepted  signal  for 
shuffling  the  feet  and  looking  bored.  We  turn 
away  from  the  benign  doctor  at  his  reading- 
desk,  fumbling  at  that  oft-repeated  lecture 
which  our  fathers  and  grandfathers  remember 
and  quote,  —  we  turn  our  gaze  to  the  open  win 
dows  and  the  sunlight.  The  philosophy  of  life 
is  in  process  of  making  out  there,  —  a  new  phil 
osophy  for  every  hour,  with  infinite  spirit  and 
color,  and  anon  we  hear  bugles  crying  across  the 
hills  of  our  dreams.  "When  I  was  young!"  If 
we  were  not  the  politest  imaginable  body  of 
students,  —  we  who  take  Doctor  Experience's 
course  because  it  is  (I  blush  at  the  confession) 
a  "snap," — we  should  all  be  out  of  the  window 
and  over  the  hills  and  far  away. 

The  great  weakness  of  Experience  as  a 
teacher  lies  in  the  fact  that  truth  is  so  alterable. 
We  have  hardly  realized  how  utterly  the  snqws 

9? 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

and  roses  of  yesteryear  vanish  before  the  amiable 
book  agent  points  out  to  us  the  obsolete  charac 
ter  of  our  most  prized  encyclopaedia.  All  books 
should  be  purchased  with  a  view  to  their  utility 
in  lifting  the  baby's  chin  a  proper  distance 
above  the  breakfast  table;  for,  quite  likely,  this 
will  soon  become  their  sole  office  in  the  house 
hold.  Within  a  fifteen-minute  walk  of  the  win 
dow  by  which  I  write  lives  a  man  who  rejects 
utterly  the  idea  that  the  world  is  round,  and  he 
is  by  no  means  a  fool.  He  is  a  far  more  inter 
esting  person,  I  dare  say,  than  Copernicus  or 
Galileo  ever  was;  and  his  strawberries  are  the 
earliest  and  the  best  produced  in  our  township. 
Truth,  let  us  say,  is  a  continuing  matter,  and 
hope  springeth  eternal.  This  is  where  I  parted 
company  with  the  revered  doctor  long  ago.  His 
inability  to  catch  bass  in  the  creek  is  n't  going 
to  keep  me  at  home  to-morrow  morning.  For 
all  I  care,  he  may  sit  on  his  veranda  and  talk 
himself  hoarse  to  his  old  friend,  Professor  Kill 
joy,  whose  gum  shoes  and  ear-muffs  are  a  feat 
ure  of  our  village  landscape. 

When  you  and  I,  my  brother,  are  called  on  to 
address  the  young,  how  blithely  we  congratu- 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

late  our  hearers  upon  being  the  inheritors  of  the 
wisdom  of  all  the  ages.  This  is  one  of  the  great 
est  of  fallacies.  The  twentieth  century  dawned 
upon  American  States  that  were  bored  by  the 
very  thought  of  the  Constitution,  and  willing 
to  forget  that  venerable  document  at  least  long 
enough  to  experiment  with  the  Initiative,  the 
Referendum,  and  the  Recall.  What  some  Lord 
Chief  Justice  announced  as  sound  law  a  hun 
dred  years  ago  means  nothing  to  common 
wealths  that  have  risen  since  the  motor-car 
began  honking  in  the  highway.  On  a  starry 
night  in  the  spring  of  1912  a  veteran  sea-cap 
tain,  with  wireless  warnings  buttoned  under  his 
pea-jacket,  sent  the  finest  ship  in  the  world 
smashing  into  an  iceberg.  All  the  safety  de 
vices  known  to  railroading  cannot  prevent  some 
engineer  from  occasionally  trying  the  experi 
ment  of  running  two  trains  on  a  single  track. 
With  the  full  weight  of  the  experience  of  a 
thousand  years  against  him  the  teller  begins  to 
transfer  the  bank's  money  to  his  own  pocket, 
knowing  well  the  hazard  and  the  penalty. 

We  pretend  to  invoke  dear  old  Experience  as 
though  he  were  a  god,  fondly  imagining  that  an 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

honest  impulse  demands  that  we  appeal  to  him 
as  an  arbiter.  But  when  we  have  submitted  our 
case  and  listened  to  his  verdict,  we  express  our 
thanks  and  go  away  and  do  exactly  as  we  please. 
We  all  carry  our  troubles  to  the  friends  whose 
sympathy  we  know  outweighs  their  wisdom. 
We  want  them  to  pat  us  on  the  back  and  tell 
us  that  we  are  doing  exactly  right.  If  by  any 
chance  they  are  bold  enough  to  give  us  an 
honest  judgment  based  on  real  convictions,  we 
depart  with  a  grievance,  our  confidence  shaken. 
We  lean  upon  our  friends,  to  be  sure;  but  we 
rely  upon  them  to  bail  us  out  after  the  forts  of 
folly  have  crashed  about  our  ears  and  we  pine 
in  the  donjon,  rather  than  on  their  advice  that 
might  possibly  have  preserved  us  on  the  right 
side  of  the  barricade.  And  I  may  note  here, 
that  of  all  the  offices  that  man  may  undertake, 
that  of  the  frank  friend  is  the  most  thankless. 
The  frank  friend!  It  is  he  who  told  you  yester 
day  that  you  were  looking  wretchedly  ill.  Doc 
tor  Experience  had  warned  him;  and  he  felt 
it  to  be  his  duty  to  stop  you  in  your  headlong 
plunge.  To-morrow  he  will  drop  in  to  tell  you 
in  gentle  terms  that  your  latest  poem  is  — 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

well,  he  hates  to  say  it  —  but  he  fears  it  is  n't 
up  to  your  old  mark!  The  frank  friend,  you 
may  remember,  is  Doctor  Experience's  favor 
ite  pupil. 

We  are  all  trying  to  square  wisdom  with  our 
own  aims  and  errors.  Professional  men,  whose 
business  is  the  giving  of  advice,  are  fully  aware 
of  this.  Death  is  the  only  arbiter  who  can 
enforce  his  own  writs,  and  it  is  not  for  man 
to  speak  a  final  word  on  any  matter. 

I  was  brought  up  to  have  an  immense  respect 
• —  reverence,  even  —  for  law.  It  seemed  to  me 
in  my  youth  to  embody  a  tremendous  philo 
sophy.  Here,  I  used  to  say,  as  I  pondered  opin 
ion  and  precedent,  —  here  is  the  very  flower 
and  fruit  of  the  wisdom  of  the  ages.  I  little 
dreamed  that  both  sides  of  every  case  may  be 
supported  by  authorities  of  equal  dignity. 
Imagine  my  bewilderment  when  I  found  that  a 
case  which  is  likely  to  prove  weak  before  one 
infallible  judge  may  be  shifted  with  little 
trouble  to  another,  equally  infallible,  but  with 
views  known  to  be  friendly  to  the  cause  in 
question.  I  sojourned  for  a  time  in  a  judicial 
circuit  where  there  was  considerable  traveling 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

to  be  done  by  the  court  and  bar.  The  lawyer 
who  was  most  enterprising  in  securing  a 
sleeping-car  stateroom  wherein  to  play  poker 
—  discreetly  and  not  too  successfully  —  with 
the  judge,  was  commonly  supposed  to  have  the 
best  chance  of  winning  his  cases. 

Our  neighbors'  failures  are  really  of  no  use  to 
us.  "No  Admittance"  and  "Paint"  are  not 
accepted  by  the  curious  world  as  warnings,  but 
as  invitations. 

"A  sign  once  caught  the  casual  eye, 

And  it  said,  *  Paint'; 
And  every  one  who  passed  it  by, 

Sinner  or  saint, 
Into  the  fresh  green  color  must 

Make  it  his  biz 

A  doubting  finger-point  to  thrust, 
That  he,  accepting  naught  on  trust, 

Might  say,  'It  is,  it  is!": 

Cynic,  do  I  hear?  The  term  is  not  one  of  oppro 
brium.  A  cynic  is  the  alert  and  discerning  man 
who  declines  to  cut  the  cotton-filled  pie  or  pick 
up  the  decoy  purse  on  All  Fools'  Day. 

We  are  bound  to  test  for  ourselves  the  iden 
tical  heating  apparatus  which  the  man  next 
door  cast  away  as  rubbish  last  spring.  We  know 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

why  its  heat  units  were  unsatisfactory  to  him, 
—  it  was  because  his  chimneys  were  too  small; 
and  though  our  own  are  as  like  them  as  two 
peas  we  proceed  to  our  own  experiment  with 
our  eyes  wide  open.  Mrs.  B  telephones  to  Mrs. 
A  and  asks  touching  the  merits,  habits,  and  pre 
vious  condition  of  servitude  of  the  cook  Mrs.  A 
discharged  this  morning.  Mrs.  A,  who  holds  an 
honorary  degree  bestowed  upon  her  by  the  good 
Doctor  Experience,  leans  upon  the  telephone 
and  explains  with  conscientious  detail  the  de 
ficiencies  of  Mary  Ann.  She  does  as  she  would 
be  done  by  and  does  it  thoroughly.  But  what  is 
her  astonishment  to  learn  the  next  day  that 
Mary  Ann's  trunk  has  been  transferred  to  Mrs. 
B's  third  story;  that  Mary  Ann's  impossible 
bread  and  deadly  cake  are  upon  Mrs.  B's  table! 
Mrs.  B,  too,  took  a  course  of  lectures  under 
Doctor  Experience,  and  she  admires  him 
greatly;  but  what  do  these  facts  avail  her  when 
guests  are  alighting  at  the  door  and  Mary  Ann 
is  the  only  cook  visible  in  the  urban  land 
scape  ?  Moreover,  Mrs.  A  always  was  (delect 
able  colloquialism!)  a  hard  mistress,  and 
Mrs.  B  must,  she  feels,  judge  of  these  matters 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

for  herself.  And  so  —  so  —  say  we  all  of 
us! 

Men  who  have  done  post-graduate  work  in 
the  good  doctor's  school  are  no  better  fortified 
against  error  than  the  rest  of  us  who  may  never 
have  got  beyond  his  kindergarten.  The  results 
might  be  different  if  it  were  not  that  Mistress 
Vanity  by  her  arts  and  graces  demoralizes  the 
doctor's  students,  whose  eyes  wander  to  the 
windows  as  she  flits  across  the  campus.  Con 
servative  bankers,  sage  lawyers,  and  wise  legis 
lators  have  been  the  frequent  and  easy  prey  of 
the  gold-brick  operator.  The  police  announce 
a  new  crop  of  "suckers"  every  spring, — 
which  seems  to  indicate  that  Mistress  Vanity 
wields  a  greater  influence  than  Doctor  Experi 
ence.  These  words  stare  at  me  oddly  in  type; 
they  are  the  symbols  of  a  disagreeable  truth,  — 
and  yet  we  may  as  well  face  it.  The  eternal  ego 
will  not  bow  to  any  dingy  doctor  whose  lec 
tures  only  illustrate  his  own  inability  to  get  on 
in  the  world. 

The  best  skating  is  always  on  thin  ice,  —  we 
like  to  feel  it  crack  and  yield  under  our  feet; 
there  is  a  deadly  fascination  in  the  thought  of 

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Experience  and  the 

the  twenty  or  forty  feet  of  cold  water  beneath. 
Last  year's  mortality  list  cuts  (dare  I  do  it?)  no 
ice  with  us ;  we  must  make  our  own  experiments, 
while  the  doctor  screams  himself  hoarse  from 
his  bonfire  on  the  bank.  He  has  held  many  an 
inquest  on  this  darkling  shore  of  the  river  of 
time,  and  he  will  undoubtedly  live  to  hold  many 
another;  but  thus  far  we  have  not  been  the  sub 
jects;  and  when  it  comes  to  the  mistakes  of 
others  we  are  all  delighted  to  serve  on  the 
coroner's  jury. 

It  is  n't  well  for  us  to  be  saved  from  too  many 
blunders ;  we  need  the  discipline  of  failure.  It  is 
better  to  fail  than  never  to  try,  and  the  man 
who  can  contemplate  the  graveyard  of  his  own 
hopes  without  bitterness  will  not  always  be 
ignored  by  the  gods  of  success. 

Septimus  had  a  narrow  escape  yesterday.  He 
was  reading  "Tom  Jones  "  in  the  college  library, 
when  the  doctor  stole  close  behind  him  and 
Septimus's  nervous  system  experienced  a  ter 
rible  shock.  But  it  was  the  doctor's  opportun 
ity.  "Read  biography,  young  man;  biograph 
ies  of  the  good  and  great  are  veritable  text 
books  in  this  school!"  So  you  may  observe 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

Septimus  to-day  sprawled  under  the  noblest 
elm  on  the  campus,  with  his  eyes  bulging  out 
as  he  follows  Napoleon  on  the  retreat  from  Rus 
sia.  He  has  firmly  resolved  to  profit  by  the 
failure  of  "the  darkly-gifted  Corsican."  To 
morrow  evening,  when  he  tries  to  hitch  the 
doctor's  good  old  Dobbin  to  the  chapel  bell,  and 
falls  from  the  belfry  into  the  arms  of  the  village 
constable,  he  is  far  more  tolerant  of  Napo 
leon's  mistakes.  An  interesting  biography  is 
no  more  valuable  than  a  good  novel.  If  life 
were  an  agreed  state  of  facts  and  not  a  joyful 
experiment,  then  we  might  lean  upon  biography 
as  final;  but  in  this  and  in  all  matters,  let  us  deal 
squarely  with  Youth.  Boswell's  "Johnson"  is 
only  gossip  raised  to  the  highest  power;  the 
reading  of  it  will  make  Septimus  cheerfuler,  but 
it  will  not  keep  him  from  wearing  a  dinner  coat 
to  a  five  o'clock  tea  or  teach  him  how  to  earn 
more  than  four  dollars  a  week. 

We  have  brought  existence  to  an  ideal  state 
when  at  every  breakfast  table  we  face  a  new 
world  with  no  more  use  for  yesterday  than  for 
the  grounds  of  yesterday's  coffee.  The  wisdom 
behind  us  is  a  high  wall  which  we  cannot  scale  if 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

we  would.  Its  very  height  is  tempting,  but 
there  is  no  rose-garden  beyond  it  —  only  a 
bleak  plain  with  the  sea  of  time  gnawing  its 
dreary  shores. 

To  be  old  and  to  know  ten  thousand  things  — 
there  is  something  august  and  majestic  in  the 
thought;  but  to  be  young  and  ignorant,  to  see 
yesterday  pass,  a  shining  ripple  on  the  flood  of 
oblivion,  and  then  to  buckle  down  to  the  day's 
business,  —  there's  a  better  thing  than  being 
old  and  wise!  We  are  forever  praising  the  un 
conscious  ease  of  great  literature;  and  that  ease 
—  typical  of  the  life  and  time  reflected  —  was 
a  thing  of  the  day,  with  no  yesterdays'  dead 
weight  dragging  it  down.  Whitman's  charm  for 
those  of  us  who  like  him  lies  in  the  fact  that  he 
does  n't  invite  us  to  a  rummage  sale  of  cast-off 
raiment,  but  offers  fabrics  that  are  fresh  and  in 
new  patterns.  We  have  all  known  that  same 
impatience  of  the  past  that  he  voices  so  stri 
dently.  The  world  is  as  new  to  him  as  it  was 
to  Isaiah  or  Homer. 

"When  I  heard  the  learned  astronomer, 
When  the  proofs  and  figures  were  ranged  in  columns 
before  me, 

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Experience  and  the  Calendar 

When  I  was  shown  the  charts  and  diagrams,  to  add, 

divide,  and  measure  them; 

When  I,  sitting,  heard  the  astronomer  where  he  lec 
tured  with  much  applause  in  the  lecture  room, 
How  soon,  unaccountably,  I  became  tired  and  sick, 
Till  rising  and  gliding  out  I  wander'd  off  by  myself, 
In  the  mystical  moist  night-air,  and  from  time  to  time 
Look'd  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the  stars." 

The  old  doctor  can  name  all  the  stars  with 
out  a  telescope,  but  he  does  not  know  that  in 
joy  they  "perform  their  shining."  The  real 
note  in  life  is  experiment  and  quest,  and  we 
are  detached  far  more  than  we  realize  from 
what  was  and  concerned  with  what  is  and 
may  be. 

There  is  a  delightful  comedy,  —  long  popular 
in  England  and  known  in  America,  in  which  a 
Martian  appears  on  earth  to  teach  Dickens-like 
lessons  of  unselfishness  to  men.  Since  witness 
ing  it,  I  have  often  indulged  in  speculations  as 
to  the  sensations  of  a  pilgrim  who  might  wing 
his  way  from  another  star  to  this  earth,  losing  in 
the  transition  all  knowledge  of  his  own  past 
—  and  come  freshly  upon  our  world  and  its 
achievements,  beholding  man  at  his  best  and 
worst  without  any  knowledge  whatever  of  our 

104 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

history  or  of  the  evolution  through  which  we 
have  become  what  we  are.  There  you  would 
have  a  critic  who  could  view  our  world  with 
fresh  eyes.  What  we  were  yesterday  would 
mean  nothing  to  him,  and  what  we  are  to-day 
he  might  judge  honestly  from  a  standpoint  of 
utility  or  beauty.  Not  what  was  old  or  new, 
but  what  was  good,  would  interest  him  —  not 
whether  our  morals  are  better  than  those  of 
our  ancestors,  but  whether  they  are  of  any  use 
at  all.  The  croaking  plaint  of  Not-What-It- 
Used-To-Be,  the  sanguine  It-Will-Come-In- 
Time,  would  have  no  meaning  for  such  a 
judge. 

"And  not  only  so,  but  we  glory  in  tribula 
tions  also;  knowing  that  tribulation  worketh 
patience;  and  patience,  experience;  and  experi 
ence,  hope." 

The  conjunction  of  these  last  words  is  happy. 
Verily  in  experience  lies  our  hope.  In  learning 
what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do,  in  stumbling, 
falling  to  rise  again  and  faring  ever  upward  and 
onward.  Yes,  in  and  through  experience  lies 
our  hope,  but  not,  O  brother,  a  wisdom  gained 
vicariously,  —  not  yours  for  me  nor  mine  for 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

you,  —  nor  from  enduring  books,  charm  they 
never  so  wisely,  —  but  every  one  of  us,  old  and 
young,  for  himself. 

Literature  is  rich  in  advice  that  is  utterly 
worthless.  Life's  "Book  of  Don'ts "  is  only  read 
for  the  footnotes  that  explain  why  particular 
"don'ts  "  failed,  —  it  has  become  in  reality  the 
"Book  of  Don'ts  that  Did."  It  is  pleasant  to 
remember  that  the  gentle  Autocrat,  a  man  of 
science  as  well  as  of  letters,  did  not  allow  pro 
fessional  courtesy  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  char 
acteristic  fling  at  Doctor  Experience.  He  goes, 
in  his  contempt,  to  the  stupid  creatures  of  the 
barnyard,  and  points  in  high  disdain  to  "that 
solemn  fowl,  Experience,  who,  according  to  my 
observation,  cackles  oftener  than  she  drops  real 
live  eggs." 

If  the  old  doctor  were  to  be  taken  at  his  own 
valuation  and  we  should  be  disposed  to  profit 
by  his  teachings,  our  lives  would  be  a  dreary 
round;  and  youth,  particularly,  would  find  the 
ginger  savorless  in  the  jar  and  the  ale  stale  in 
the  pot.  I  saw  my  venerable  friend  walking 
abroad  the  other  day  in  the  flowered  dressing- 
gown  which  he  so  much  affects,  wearing  his 

106 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

familiar  classroom  smile.  I  heard  him  warning 
a  boy,  who  was  hammering  a  boat  together  out 
of  wretchedly  flimsy  material,  that  his  argosy 
would  never  float;  but  the  next  day  I  saw  the 
young  Columbus  faring  forth,  with  his  coat  for 
sail,  and  saw  him  turn  the  bend  in  the  creek 
safely  and  steer  beyond  "the  gray  Azores"  of 
his  dreams. 

The  young  admiral  cannot  escape  the  perils 
of  the  deep,  and  like  St.  Paul  he  will  know 
shipwreck  before  his  marine  career  is  ended; 
but  why  discourage  him?  Not  the  doctor's 
hapless  adventures,  but  the  lad's  own  are  going 
to  make  a  man  of  him.  I  know  a  town  where, 
thirty  years  ago,  an  afternoon  newspaper  failed 
about  once  every  six  months.  There  was,  so 
the  wiseacres  affirmed,  no  manner  of  use  in 
trying  it  again.  But  a  tow-headed  boy  put  his 
small  patrimony  into  a  venture,  reinforced  it 
with  vigorous  independence  and  integrity,  and 
made  it  a  source  of  profit  to  himself  and  a 
valued  agent  in  the  community.  In  twenty 
years  the  property  sold  for  a  million  dollars. 
Greatness,  I  assure  Septimus,  consists  in  achiev 
ing  the  impossible. 

107 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

"Daughters  of  Time,  the  hypocritic  Days, 
Muffled  and  dumb  like  barefoot  dervishes, 
And  marching  single  in  an  endless  file, 
Bring  diadems  and  fagots  in  their  hands. 
To  each  they  offer  gifts  after  his  will, 
Bread,  kingdoms,  stars,  and  sky  that  holds  them 

all. 

I,  in  my  pleached  garden,  watched  the  pomp, 
Forgot  my  morning  wishes,  hastily 
Took  a  few  herbs  and  apples,  and  the  Day 
Turned  and  departed  silent.   I,  too  late, 
Under  her  solemn  fillet  saw  the  scorn." 

The  season  is  at  hand  when  Time  throws  his 
annual  challenge  in  our  teeth.  The  bell  tinkles 
peremptorily  and  a  calendar  is  thrust  upon  us. 
November  is  still  young  when  we  are  dragged 
upon  the  threshold  of  another  year.  The  leis 
urely  dismissal  of  the  old  year  is  no  longer  pos 
sible;  we  may  indulge  in  no  lingering  good-bye, 
but  the  old  fellow  hustles  out  in  haste,  with 
apologetic,  shrinking  step  and  we  slam  the  door 
upon  him.  It  is  off  with  the  old  love  and  on  with 
the  new,  whether  we  will  or  no.  I  solemnly  pro 
test  against  the  invasion  of  the  calendar.  In  an 
age  that  boasts  of  freedom,  I  rebel  against  a 
tyrant  who  comes  merely  to  warn  us  of  the 
fugitive  character  of  Time;  for  that  sharp  elbow 

108 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

in  the  ribs  has  prodded  many  a  noble  soul  to  his 
death.  These  pretty  devices  that  we  are  asked 
to  hang  upon  our  walls  are  the  seductive  adver 
tisements  of  an  insinuating  and  implacable  foe. 
We  are  asked  to  be  particeps  criminis  in  his 
hideous  trade,  for  must  I  not  tear  off  and  cast 
as  rubbish  to  the  void  a  day,  a  week,  a  month, 
that  I  may  not  have  done  with  at  all?  Why, 
may  I  ask,  should  I  throw  my  yesterdays  into 
the  waste-basket?  Yet  if  I  fail,  falling  only  a 
few  leaves  behind,  is  not  my  shameless  inef 
ficiency  and  heedlessness  paraded  before  the 
world?  How  often  have  I  delivered  myself  up 
to  my  enemies  by  suffering  April  to  laugh  her 
girlish  laughter  through  torrid  July?  I  know 
well  the  insinuating  smile  of  the  friend  who, 
dropping  in  on  a  peaceful  morning,  when  Time, 
as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  has  paused  in  the  hay- 
field  to  dream  upon  his  scythe  handle,  walks 
coolly  to  the  calendar  and  brings  me  up  to  date 
with  a  fine  air  of  rebuke,  as  though  he  were 
conferring  the  greatest  favor  in  the  world.  I  am 
sure  that  I  should  have  no  standing  with  my 
neighbors  if  they  knew  that  I  rarely  wind  my 
watch  and  that  the  clocks  in  my  house,  save 
109 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

one  or  two  that  are  kept  going  merely  to 
avoid  explanations,  are  never  wound. 

There  is  a  gentle  irony  in  the  fact  that  the 
most  insolent  dispensers  of  calendars  are  the 
life  insurance  companies.  It  is  a  legitimate  part 
of  their  nefarious  game:  you  and  I  are  their 
natural  prey,  and  if  they  can  accent  for  us  the 
mortality  of  the  flesh  by  holding  up  before  us, 
in  compact  form,  the  slight  round  of  the  year, 
they  are  doing  much  to  impress  upon  us  the 
appalling  brevity  of  our  most  reasonable  ex 
pectancy.  How  weak  we  are  to  suffer  the  in 
timidation  of  these  soulless  corporations,  who 
thrust  their  wares  upon  us  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Here's  a  new  year,  and  you'd  better  make 
the  most  of  it,  for  there's  no  saying  when  you 
will  get  another."  You,  my  friend,  with  your 
combined  calendar  and  memorandum  always 
before  you,  may  pledge  all  your  to-morrows  if 
you  will;  but  as  for  me  the  Hypocritic  Days, 
the  Barefoot  Dervishes,  may  ring  my  bell  until 
they  exhaust  the  battery  without  gaining  a 
single  hour  as  my  grudging  alms. 

We  are  all  prone  to  be  cowards,  and  to  bend 
before  the  tyrant  whose  banner  is  spread  vic- 

IIO 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

toriously  on  all  our  walls.  Poets  and  philoso 
phers  aid  and  abet  him;  the  preachers  are  for 
ever  telling  us  what  a  dreadful  fellow  he  is,  and 
warning  us  that  if  we  don't  get  on  the  good  side 
of  him  we  are  lost  forever,  —  mere  wreckage  on 
a  grim,  inhospitable  shore.  Hypocrisy  and  false 
oaths  are  born  of  such  teaching.  Januarius,  let 
us  remember,  was  two-faced,  and  it  has  come 
about  naturally  that  New  Year's  oaths  carry  a 
reserve.  They  are  not,  in  fact,  serious  obli 
gations.  It  is  a  poor  soul  that  sets  apart  a  cer 
tain  number  of  days  for  rectitude,  and  I  can't 
for  the  life  of  me  see  anything  noble  in  making 
a  constable  of  the  calendar.  I  find  with  joy  that 
I  am  freeing  myself  of  the  tyrant's  thrall.  I  am 
never  quite  sure  of  the  day  of  the  week;  I  date 
my  letters  yesterday  or  to-morrow  with  equal 
indifference.  June  usually  thrusts  ^her  roses 
into  my  windows  before  I  change  the  year  in 
dating  my  letters.  The  magazines  seem  leagued 
with  the  calendar  for  man's  undoing.  I  some 
times  rush  home  from  an  inspection  of  a  maga 
zine  counter  in  mad  haste  to  get  where  Ob 
livion  cannot  stretch  forth  a  long,  lean  arm 
and  pluck  me  into  the  eternal  shades;  for  I 

ill 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

decline  with  all  the  strength  of  my  crude  West 
ern  nature,  to  countenance  the  manufacture  of 
yesterdays,  no  matter  how  cheerful  they  may 
be,  out  of  my  confident  to-morrows.  A  March 
magazine  flung  into  the  teeth  of  a  February 
blizzard  does  not  fool  the  daffodils  a  particle. 
This  stamping  of  months  that  have  not  arrived 
upon  our  current  literature  is  nothing  more  or 
less  than  counterfeiting;  —  or  rather,  the  issu 
ing  of  false  currency  by  the  old  Tyrant  who 
stands  behind  the  counter  of  the  Bank  of  Time. 
And  there  is  the  railway  time-table,  —  the  un 
conscious  comic  utterance  of  the  Zeitgeist !  If 
the  12.59  *s  one  minute  or  one  hour  late,  who 
cares,  I  wonder?  Who  am  I,  pray,  that  I  should 
stuff  my  pocket  with  calendars  and  time 
tables  ?  Why  not  throw  the  charts  to  the  fishes 
and  let  the  winds  have  their  will  with  us  awhile! 
Let  us,  I  beg,  leave  some  little  margin  in  our 
lives  for  the  shock  of  surprise! 

The  Daughters  of  Time  are  charming  young 
persons,  and  they  may  offer  me  all  the  bread, 
kingdoms,  stars  they  like;  but  they  must  cheer 
up  or  keep  out  of  my  front  yard !  No  shuffling 
around,  like  Barefoot  Dervishes;  but  in  golden 

112 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

sandals  let  them  come,  and  I  will  kindle  a  fire  of 
next  year's  calendars  in  their  honor.  When  the 
snows  weigh  heavily  upon  the  hills,  let  us  not 
mourn  for  yesterday  or  waste  time  in  idle  spec 
ulations  at  the  fireside,  but  address  ourselves 
manfully  to  the  hour's  business.  And  as  some  of 
the  phrases  of  Horace's  ode  to  Thaliarchus  rap 
for  attention  in  an  old  file  box  at  the  back  of  my 
head,  I  set  down  a  pleasant  rendering  of  them 
by  Mr.  Charles  Edmund  Merrill,  Jr. 

"To-morrow:  Shall  the  fleeting  years 
Abide  our  questioning?  They  go 

All  heedless  of  our  hopes  and  fears. 

To-morrow?  'T  is  not  ours  to  know 
That  we  again  shall  see  the  flowers. 

To-morrow  is  the  gods',  but  oh, 
To-day  is  ours." 

We  all  salute  heartily  and  sincerely  the 
"grandeur  and  exquisiteness "  of  old  age.  It  is 
not  because  Doctor  Experience  is  old  that  we 
distrust  his  judgment;  it  is  not  his  judgment 
that  we  distrust  half  so  much  as  his  facts.  They 
are  good,  as  facts  go,  but  we  are  all  foreordained 
and  predestined  to  reap  our  own  crop.  He  need 
not  take  the  trouble  to  nail  his  sign,  "No 


Experience  and  the  Calendar 

thoroughfare,"  on  the  highways  that  have 
perplexed  him,  for  we,  too,  must  stray  into  the 
brambles  and  stumble  at  the  ford.  It  is  decreed 
that  we  sail  without  those  old  charts  of  his,  and 
we  drop  our  signal-books  and  barometer  over 
board  without  a  qualm.  The  reefs  change  with 
every  tide,  adding  zest  to  our  adventure;  and 
while  the  gulfs  may  wash  us  down,  there  's 
always  the  chance  that,  in  our  own  way  and 
after  much  anxious  and  stupid  sailing,  we 
may  ground  our  barnacled  hulks  on  the  golden 
sands  of  the  Happy  Isles.  Our  blood  cries  for 
the  open  sea  or  the  long  white  road,  and 

"Rare  the  moment  and  exceeding  fleet 

When  the  spring  sunlight,  tremulous  and  thin, 
Makes  glad  the  pulses  with  tumultuous  beat 
For  meadows  never  won  nor  wandered  in." 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

T  THINK  he  should.  Moreover,  I  think  I 
-*•  should  set  Smith  an  example  by  placing  my 
self  on  Sunday  morning  in  a  pew  from  which  he 
may  observe  me  at  my  devotions.  Smith  and  I 
attended  the  same  Sunday  school  when  we 
were  boys,  and  remained  for  church  afterwards 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Smith  now  spends  his 
Sunday  mornings  golfing,  or  pottering  about  his 
garden,  or  in  his  club  or  office,  and  after  the 
midday  meal  he  takes  a  nap  and  loads  his  fam 
ily  into  a  motor  for  a  flight  countryward.  It 
must  be  understood  that  I  do  not  offer  myself 
as  a  pattern  for  Smith.  While  I  resent  being 
classified  with  the  lost  sheep,  I  am,  neverthe 
less,  a  restless  member  of  the  flock,  prone  to 
leap  the  wall  and  wander.  Smith  is  the  best  of 
fellows,  —  an  average  twentieth-century  Amer 
ican,  diligent  in  business,  a  kind  husband  and 
father,  and  in  politics  anxious  to  vote  for  what 
he  believes  to  be  the  best  interests  of  the 
country. 

117 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

In  the  community  where  we  were  reared  it 
was  not  respectable  not  to  go  to  church.  I  re 
member  distinctly  that  in  my  boyhood  people 
who  were  not  affiliated  with  some  church  were 
looked  upon  as  lawless  pariahs.  An  infidel  was 
a  marked  man :  one  used  to  be  visible  in  the 
streets  I  frequented,  and  I  never  passed  him 
without  a  thrill  of  horror.  Our  city  was  long 
known  as  "a  poor  theatre  town,"  where  only 
Booth  in  Hamlet  and  Jefferson  in  Rip  might  be 
patronized  by  church-going  people  who  valued 
their  reputations.  Yet  in  the  same  community 
no  reproach  attaches  to-day  to  the  non-church- 
going  citizen.  A  majority  of  the  men  I  know 
best,  in  cities  large  and  small,  do  not  go  to 
church.  Most  of  them  are  in  nowise  antagonis 
tic  to  religion;  they  are  merely  indifferent. 
Clearly,  there  must  be  some  reason  for  this 
change.  It  is  inconceivable  that  men  would 
lightly  put  from  them  the  faith  of  their  fathers 
through  which  they  are  promised  redemption 
from  sin  and  everlasting  life. 

Now  and  then  I  hear  it  asserted  that  the 
church  is  not  losing  its  hold  upon  the  people. 
Many  clergymen  and  laymen  resent  the  oft- 

118 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

repeated  statement  that  we  Americans  are  not 
as  deeply  swayed  by  religion  as  in  other  times; 
but  this  seems  to  me  a  case  of  whistling  through 
a  graveyard  on  a  dark  night. 

A  recent  essayist,1  writing  defensively  of  the 
church,  cries,  in  effect,  that  it  is  moving  toward 
the  light;  don't  shoot!  He  declares  that  no  one 
who  has  not  contributed  something  toward  the 
solution  of  the  church's  problem  has  earned  the 
right  to  criticize.  I  am  unable  to  sympathize 
with  this  reasoning.  The  church  is  either  the 
repository  of  the  Christian  religion  on  earth, 
the  divinely  inspired  and  blessed  tabernacle  of 
the  faith  of  Christ,  or  it  is  a  stupendous  fraud. 
There  is  no  sound  reason  why  the  church  should 
not  be  required  to  give  an  account  of  its  stew 
ardship.  If  it  no  longer  attracts  men  and 
women  in  our  strenuous  and  impatient  Amer 
ica,  then  it  is  manifestly  unjust  to  deny  to  out 
siders  the  right  of  criticism.  Smith  is  far  from 
being  a  fool,  and  if  by  his  test  of  "What's  in  it 
forme?"  he  finds  the  church  wanting,  it  is,  as 
he  would  say,  "up  to  the  church"  to  expend 

1  "Heckling  the  Church,"  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  De 
cember,  1911. 

119 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

some  of  its  energy  in  proving  that  there  is  a  good 
deal  in  it  for  him.  It  is  unfair  to  say  to  Smith, 
who  has  utterly  lost  touch  with  the  church, 
that  before  he  is  qualified  to  criticize  the  ways 
and  the  manners  of  churches  he  must  renew 
an  allegiance  which  he  was  far  too  intelligent 
and  conscientious  to  sever  without  cause. 

Nor  can  I  justly  be  denied  the  right  of  criti 
cism  because  my  own  ardor  is  diminished,  and 
I  am  frequently  conscious  of  a  distinct  luke- 
warmness.  I  confess  to  a  persistent  need  in  my 
own  life  for  the  support,  the  stimulus,  the  hope, 
that  is  inherent  in  the  teachings  of  Christianity; 
nevertheless  the  church  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
Protestantism  with  which  I  am  familiar  —  has 
seemed  to  me  increasingly  a  wholly  inadequate 
medium  for  communicating  to  men  such  as 
Smith  and  myself  the  help  and  inspiration  of 
the  vision  of  Christ.  There  are  far  too  many 
Smiths  who  do  not  care  particularly  whether 
the  churches  prosper  or  die.  And  I  urge  that 
Smith  is  worthy  of  the  church's  best  considera 
tion.  Even  if  the  ninety-and-nine  were  snugly 
housed  in  the  fold,  Smith's  soul  is  still  worth 
the  saving. 

120 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 
Than  my  Testyment  fer  that." 

Yet  Smith  does  n't  care  a  farthing  about  the 
state  of  his  soul.  Nothing,  in  fact,  interests  him 
less.  Smith's  wife  had  been  "brought  up  in  the 
church,"  but  after  her  marriage  she  displayed 
Smith  to  the  eyes  of  the  congregation  for  a  few 
Easter  Sundays  and  then  gave  him  up.  How 
ever,  their  children  attend  Sunday  school  of  a 
denomination  other  than  that  in  which  the 
Smiths  were  reared,  and  Smith  gives  money  to 
several  churches;  he  declares  that  he  believes 
churches  are  a  good  thing,  and  he  will  do  almost 
anything  for  a  church  but  attend  its  services. 
What  he  really  means  to  say  is  that  he  thinks 
the  church  is  a  good  thing  for  Jones  and  me,  but 
that,  as  for  himself,  he  gets  on  comfortably 
without  it. 

And  the  great  danger  both  to  the  church  and 
to  Smith  lies  in  the  fact  that  he  does  apparently 
get  on  so  comfortably  without  it! 


My  personal  experiences  of  religion  and  of 
churches  have  been  rather  varied,  and  while 

121 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

they  present  nothing  unusual,  I  shall  refer  to 
them  as  my  justification  for  venturing  to  speak 
to  my  text  at  all.  I  was  baptized  in  the  Episco 
pal  Church  in  infancy,  but  in  about  my  tenth 
year  I  began  to  gain  some  knowledge  of  other 
Protestant  churches.  One  of  my  grandfathers 
had  been  in  turn  Methodist  and  Presbyterian, 
and  I  "joined"  the  latter  church  in  my  youth. 
Becoming  later  a  communicant  of  the  Episcopal 
Church,  I  was  at  intervals  a  vestryman  and 
a  delegate  to  councils,  and  for  twenty  years 
attended  services  with  a  regularity  that  strikes 
me  as  rather  admirable  in  the  retrospect. 

As  a  boy  I  was  taken  to  many  "revivals" 
under  a  variety  of  denominational  auspices,  and 
later,  as  a  newspaper  reporter,  I  was  frequently 
assigned  to  conferences  and  evangelistic  meet 
ings.  I  made  my  first  "hit"  as  a  reporter 
by  my  vivacious  accounts  of  the  perform 
ances  of  a  "trance"  revivalist,  who  operated  in 
a  skating-rink  in  my  town.  There  was  some 
thing  indescribably  "woozy"  in  those  catalep 
tic  manifestations  in  the  bare,  ill-lighted  hall. 
I  even  recall  vividly  the  bump  of  the  mourners' 
heads  as  they  struck  the  floor,  while  the  evan- 

122 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

gelist  moved  among  the  benches  haranguing 
the  crowd.  Somewhat  earlier  I  used  to  delight 
in  the  calisthenic  performances  of  a  "boy 
preacher"  who  ranged  my  part  of  the  world. 
His  physical  activities  were  as  astonishing  as  his 
volubility.  At  the  high  moment  of  his  discourse 
he  would  take  a  flying  leap  from  the  platform  to 
the  covered  marble  baptismal  font.  He  wore 
pumps  for  greater  ease  in  these  flights,  and 
would  run  the  length  of  the  church  with  aston 
ishing  nimbleness,  across  the  backs  of  the  seats 
over  the  heads  of  the  kneeling  congregation.  I 
often  listened  with  delicious  horripilations  to 
the  most  startling  of  this  evangelist's  pero 
rations,  in  which  he  described  the  coming  of 
the  Pale  Rider.  It  was  a  shuddersome  thing. 
The  horror  of  it,  and  the  wailing  and  cry 
ing  it  evoked,  come  back  to  me  after  thirty 
years. 

The  visit  of  an  evangelist  used  to  be  an  im 
portant  event  in  my  town;  converts  were  ob 
jects  of  awed  attention,  particularly  in  the  case 
of  notorious  hardened  sinners  whose  repentance 
awakened  the  greatest  public  interest  and  sym 
pathy.  Now  that  we  have  passed  the  quarter- 
123 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

million  mark,  revivals  cause  less  stir,  for  evan 
gelists  of  the  more  militant,  spectacular  type 
seem  to  avoid  the  larger  cities.  Those  who  have 
never  observed  the  effect  of  a  religious  revival 
upon  a  community  not  too  large  or  too  callous 
to  be  shaken  by  it  have  no  idea  of  the  power 
exerted  by  the  popular  evangelist.  It  is  com 
monly  said  that  these  visits  only  temporarily 
arrest  the  march  of  sin;  that  after  a  brief  experi 
ence  of  godly  life  the  converts  quickly  relapse; 
but  I  believe  that  these  strident  trumpetings  of 
the  ram's  horn  are  not  without  their  salutary 
effect.  The  saloons,  for  a  time  at  least,  find 
fewer  customers;  the  forces  of  decency  are 
strengthened,  and  the  churches  usually  gain  in 
membership.  Most  of  us  prefer  our  religion 
without  taint  of  melodrama,  but  it  is  far  from 
my  purpose  to  asperse  any  method  or  agency 
that  may  win  men  to  better  ways  of  life. 

At  one  time  and  another  I  seem  to  have  read 
a  good  deal  on  various  aspects  of  religion.  New 
man  and  the  Tractarians  interested  me  im 
mensely.  I  purchased  all  of  Newman's  writings, 
and  made  a  collection  of  his  photographs,  sev 
eral  of  which  gaze  at  me,  a  little  mournfully  and 

124 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

rebukingly,  as  I  write;  for  presently  I  took  a 
cold  plunge  into  Matthew  Arnold,  and  Rome 
ceased  to  call  me.  Arnold's  writings  on  relig 
ious  subjects  have  been  obscured  by  the  growing 
reputation  of  his  poetry;  but  it  was  only  yester 
day  that  "Literature  and  Dogma"  and  "God 
and  the  Bible"  enjoyed  great  vogue.  He  trans 
lated  continental  criticism  into  terms  that  made 
it  accessible  to  laymen,  and  encouraged  liberal 
thought.  He  undoubtedly  helped  many  to  a 
new  orientation  in  matters  of  faith. 

My  reading  in  church  history,  dogma,  and 
criticism  has  been  about  that  of  the  average 
layman.  I  have  enjoyed  following  the  experi 
ments  of  the  psychical  researchers,  and  have 
been  a  diligent  student  of  the  proceedings  of 
heresy  trials.  The  Andover  case  and  the  Briggs 
controversy  once  seemed  important,  and  they 
doubtless  were,  but  they  established  nothing  of 
value.  The  churches  are  warier  of  heresy  trials 
than  they  were;  and  in  this  connection  I  hold 
that  a  clergyman  who  entertains  an  honest 
doubt  as  to  the  virgin  birth  or  the  resurrection 
may  still  be  a  faithful  servant  of  Jesus  Christ. 
To  unfrock  him  merely  arouses  controversy, 

I2S 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

and  draws  attention  to  questions  that  can  never 
be  absolutely  determined  by  any  additional 
evidence  likely  to  be  adduced.  The  continu 
ance  in  the  ministry  of  a  doubter  on  such  points 
becomes  a  question  of  taste  which  I  admit  to  be 
debatable;  but  where,  as  has  happened  once  in 
late  years,  the  culprit  was  an  earnest  and  sin 
cere  doer  of  Christianity's  appointed  tasks,  his 
conviction  served  no  purpose  beyond  arousing  a 
species  of  cynical  enjoyment  in  the  bosom  of 
Smith,  and  of  smug  satisfaction  in  those  who 
righteously  flung  a  well-meaning  man  to  the 
lions. 

Far  more  serious  are  the  difficulties  of  those 
ministers  of  every  shade  of  faith  who  find  them 
selves  curbed  and  more  or  less  openly  threat 
ened  for  courageously  attacking  evils  they  find 
at  their  own  doors  by  those  responsible  for  the 
conditions  they  assail.  Only  recently  two  or 
three  cases  have  come  to  my  attention  of 
clergymen  who  had  awakened  hostility  in  their 
congregations  by  their  zeal  in  social  service. 
The  loyal  support  of  such  men  by  their  fellows 
seems  to  me  far  nobler  than  the  pursuit  of 
heretics.  The  Smiths  of  our  country  have 

126 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

learned  to  admire  courage  in  their  politics,  and 
there  is  no  reason  for  believing  that  they  will 
not  rally  to  a  religion  that  practices  it  un 
dauntedly.  Christ,  of  all  things,  was  no  coward. 
There  is,  I  believe,  nowhere  manifest  at  this 
time,  within  the  larger  Protestant  bodies  at 
least,  any  disposition  to  defend  the  inerrancy 
of  the  Bible,  and  this  is  fortunate  in  that  it 
leaves  the  churches  free  to  deal  with  more  vital 
matters.  It  seems  fair  to  assume  that  criticism 
has  spent  its  force,  and  done  its  worst.  The 
spirit  of  the  Bible  has  not  been  harmed  by  it. 
The  reliance  of  the  Hebrews  on  the  beneficence 
of  Jehovah,  the  testimony  of  Jesus  to  the  endur 
ing  worth  of  charity,  mercy,  and  love,  have  in 
nowise  been  injured  by  textual  criticism.  The 
Old  Testament,  fancifully  imagined  as  the 
Word  of  God  given  by  dictation  to  specially 
chosen  amanuenses,  appeals  to  me  no  more 
strongly  than  a  Bible  recognized  as  the  vision 
of  brooding  spirits,  who,  in  a  time  when  the 
world  was  young,  and  earth  was  nearer  heaven 
than  now,  were  conscious  of  longings  and 
dreams  that  were  wonderfully  realized  in  their 
own  hearts  and  lives.  And  the  essentials  of 

127 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

Christ's  teachings  have  lost  nothing  by  criti 
cism. 

The  Smiths  who  have  drifted  away  from  the 
churches  will  hardly  be  brought  back  to  the 
pews  by  even  the  most  scholarly  discussion  of 
doubtful  texts.  Smith  is  not  interested  in  the 
authenticity  of  lines  or  chapters,  nor  do  nice 
points  of  dogma  touch  the  affairs  of  his  life  or 
the  needs  of  his  soul.  The  fact  that  certain 
gentlemen  in  session  atNicaea  in  A.  D.  325  issued 
a  statement  of  faith  for  his  guidance  strikes 
him  as  negligible;  it  does  not  square  with  any 
need  of  which  he  is  conscious  in  his  own  breast. 

A  church  that  would  regain  the  lost  Smiths 
will  do  well  to  satisfy  that  large  company  of  the 
estranged  and  the  indifferent  that  one  need  not 
believe  all  that  is  contained  between  the  lids  of 
the  Bible  to  be  a  Christian.  Much  of  the  Bible 
is  vulnerable,  but  Jesus  explained  himself  in 
terms  whose  clarity  has  in  nowise  been  clouded 
by  criticism.  Smith  has  no  time,  even  if  he  had 
the  scholarship,  to  pass  upon  the  merits  of  the 
Book  of  Daniel;  but  give  him  Christ's  own 
words  without  elucidation  and  he  is  at  once  on 
secure  ground.  There  only  lately  came  into  my 

128 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

hands  a  New  Testament  in  which  every  utter 
ance  of  Jesus  is  given  the  emphasis  of  black-face 
type,  with  the  effect  of  throwing  his  sayings  into 
high  relief;  and  no  one  reading  his  precepts  thus 
presented  can  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the  ex 
actness  with  which  He  formulated  his  "secret" 
into  a  working  platform  for  the  guidance  of 
men.  Verily  there  could  be  no  greater  testi 
mony  to  the  divine  authority  of  the  Carpenter 
of  Nazareth  than  the  persistence  with  which  his 
ideal  flowers  upon  the  ever-mounting  mass  of 
literature  produced  to  explain  Him. 

ii 

Smith  will  not  be  won  back  to  the  church 
through  appeals  to  theology,  or  stubborn  reaf- 
firmations  of  creeds  and  dogmas.  I  believe  it 
may  safely  be  said  that  the  great  body  of  min 
isters  individually  recognize  this.  A  few  cling  to 
a  superstition  that  there  is  inherent  in  religion 
itself  a  power  which  by  some  sort  of  magic, 
independently  of  man,  will  make  the  faith  of 
Christ  triumphant  in  the  world.  I  do  not  be 
lieve  so;  Smith  could  not  be  made  to  think  so. 
And  Smith's  trouble  is,  if  I  understand  him,  not 
129 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

with  faith  after  all,  but  with  works.  The  church 
does  not  impress  him  as  being  an  efficient 
machine  that  yields  adequate  returns  upon  the 
investment.  If  Smith  can  be  brought  to  works 
through  faith,  well  enough;  but  he  is  far  more 
critical  of  works  than  of  faith.  Works  are 
within  the  range  of  his  experience;  he  admires 
achievement:  show  him  a  foundation  of  works 
and  interest  him  in  strengthening  that  founda 
tion  and  in  building  upon  it,  and  his  faith  will 
take  care  of  itself. 

The  word  we  encounter  oftenest  in  the  busi 
ness  world  nowadays  is  "efficiency";  the  thing 
of  which  Smith  must  first  be  convinced  is  that 
the  church  may  be  made  efficient.  And  on  that 
ground  he  must  be  met  honestly,  for  Smith  is  a 
practical  being,  who  surveys  religion,  as  every 
thing  else,  with  an  eye  of  calculation.  At  a  time 
when  the  ethical  spirit  in  America  is  more 
healthy  and  vigorous  than  ever  before,  Smith 
does  not  connect  the  movements  of  which  he  is 
aware  in  business  and  politics  with  religion. 
Religion  seems  to  him  to  be  a  poor  starved  side 
issue,  not  a  source  and  guiding  spirit  in  the 
phenomena  he  observes  and  respects. 

130 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

The  economic  waste  represented  in  church 
investment  and  administration  does  not  im 
press  Smith  favorably,  nor  does  it  awaken  ad 
miration  in  Jones  or  in  me.  Smith  knows  that 
two  groceries  on  opposite  sides  of  the  street  are 
usually  one  too  many.  We  used  to  be  told  that 
denominational  rivalry  aroused  zeal,  but  this 
cannot  longer  be  more  than  an  absurd  pretense. 
This  idea  that  competition  is  essential  to  the 
successful  extension  of  Christianity  continues 
to  bring  into  being  many  crippled  and  dying 
churches,  as  Smith  well  knows.  And  he  has 
witnessed,  too,  a  deterioration  of  the  church's 
power  through  its  abandonment  of  philan 
thropic  work  to  secular  agencies,  while  churches 
of  the  familiar  type,  locked  up  tight  all  the  week 
save  for  a  prayer-meeting  and  choir-practice, 
have  nothing  to  do.  What  strikes  Smith  is  their 
utter  wastefulness  and  futility. 

The  lack  of  harmony  in  individual  churches 
—  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of  it  —  is  not  reas 
suring  to  the  outsider.  The  cynical  attitude  of 
a  good  many  non-church-going  Smiths  is  due  to 
the  strifes,  often  contemptibly  petty,  prevailing 
within  church  walls.  It  seems  difficult  for 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

Christians  to  dwell  together  in  peace  and  con 
cord.  In  almost  every  congregation  there  ap 
pears  to  be  a  party  favorable  to  the  minister 
and  one  antagonistic  to  him.  A  minister  who 
seemed  to  me  to  fill  more  fully  the  Christian 
ideal  than  any  man  I  have  known  was  harassed 
in  the  most  brutal  fashion  by  a  congregation  in 
capable  of  appreciating  the  fidelity  and  self- 
sacrifice  that  marked  his  ministry.  I  recall 
with  delight  the  fighting  qualities  of  another 
clergyman  who  was  an  exceptionally  brilliant 
pulpit  orator.  He  was  a  Methodist  who  had 
fallen  to  the  lot  of  a  church  that  had  not  lately 
been  distinguished  for  able  preaching.  This 
man  filled  his  church  twice  every  Sunday,  and 
it  was  the  one  sought  oftenest  by  strangers 
within  the  city's  gates ;  yet  about  half  his  own 
membership  hated  him  cordially.  Though  I  was 
never  of  his  flock,  I  enjoyed  his  sermons ;  and 
knowing  something  of  his  relations  with  the  op 
position  party  in  his  congregation,  I  recall  with 
keenest  pleasure  how  he  fought  back.  Now  and 
then  an  arrow  grazed  his  ear;  but  he  was  un- 
heedful  of  warnings  that  he  would  be  pilloried 
for  heresy.  He  landed  finally  in  his  old  age  in 

132 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

an  obscure  church,  where  he  died,  still  fighting 
with  his  back  to  the  wall.  Though  the  shep 
herd's  crook  as  a  weapon  is  going  out  of  style,  I 
have  an  idea  that  clergymen  who  stand  sturdily 
for  their  own  ideals  receive  far  kindlier  consid 
eration  than  those  who  meekly  bow  to  vestries, 
trustees,  deacons,  elders,  and  bishops. 

Music  has  long  been  notoriously  a  provoker 
of  discord.  Once  in  my  news-hunting  days  I 
suffered  the  ignominy  of  a  "scoop"  on  a  choir- 
rumpus,  and  I  thereupon  formed  the  habit  of 
lending  an  anxious  ear  to  rumors  of  trouble  in 
choir-lofts.  The  average  ladder-like  Te  Deum, 
built  up  for  the  display  of  the  soprano's  vocal 
prowess,  has  always  struck  me  as  an  unholy 
thing.  I  even  believe  that  the  horrors  of  highly 
embellished  offertories  have  done  much  to 
tighten  purse-strings  and  deaden  generous  im 
pulses.  The  presence  behind  the  pulpit  of  a 
languid  quartette  praising  God  on  behalf  of  the 
bored  sinners  in  the  pews  has  always  seemed  to 
me  the  profanest  of  anomalies.  Nor  has  long 
contemplation  of  vested  choirs  in  Episcopal 
churches  shaken  my  belief  that  church  music 
should  be  an  affair  of  the  congregation. 

133 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

There  seems  to  exist  inevitably,  even  in  the 
smallest  congregation,  "a  certain  rich  man" 
whose  opinions  must  be  respected  by  the  pulpit. 
The  minister  of  a  large  congregation  confessed 
to  me  despairingly,  not  long  ago,  that  the  cour 
age  had  been  taken  out  of  him  by  the  protests 
evoked  whenever  he  touched  even  remotely 
upon  social  topics  like  child  labor,  or  shorter 
hours  for  workingmen.  There  were  manufact 
urers  in  that  church  who  would  not  "stand  for 
it."  Ministers  are  warned  that  they  must  at 
tend  to  their  own  business,  which  is  preaching 
the  Word  of  God  not  so  concretely  or  practic 
ally  as  to  offend  the  "pillars." 

Just  what  is  it,  I  wonder,  that  a  minister  may 
preach  without  hazarding  his  job?  It  is  said 
persistently  that  the  trouble  with  the  church 
at  the  present  day  is  that  the  ministers  no 
longer  preach  the  Word  of  God;  that  if  Christ 
ian  Truth  were  again  taught  with  the  old 
vigor,  people  would  hear  it  gladly.  This  is,  I 
believe,  an  enormous  fallacy.  I  know  churches 
where  strict  orthodoxy  has  been  preached  unin 
terruptedly  for  years,  and  which  have  steadily 
declined  in  spite  of  it  —  or  because  of  it.  Not 

134 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

long  ago,  in  a  great  assembly  of  one  of  the 
strongest  denominations,  when  that  cry  for  a 
return  to  the  "Old  Bible  Truth  "  was  raised,  one 
minister  rose  and  attacked  the  plea,  declaring 
that  he  had  never  faltered  in  his  devotion 
to  ancient  dogma,  and  yet  his  church  was  dy 
ing.  And  even  so,  many  churches  whose  walls 
echo  uninterruptedly  an  absolutely  impeccable 
orthodoxy  are  failing.  We  shall  not  easily  per 
suade  Smith  to  forego  the  golf-links  on  Sun 
day  morning  to  hear  the  "Old  Gospel  Truth" 
preached  in  out-worn,  meaningless  phrases. 
Those  old  coins  have  the  gold  in  them,  but  they 
must  be  recast  in  new  moulds  if  they  are  again 
to  pass  current. 

in 

The  difficulties  of  the  clergy  are  greatly  mul 
tiplied  in  these  days.  The  pulpit  has  lost  its  old 
authority.  It  no  longer  necessarily  follows  that 
the  ministers  are  the  men  of  greatest  cultivation 
in  their  community.  The  Monday  morning 
newspapers  formerly  printed,  in  my  town, 
pretty  full  excerpts  of  sermons.  I  recall  the 
case  of  one  popular  minister  whose  sermons 

I3S 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

continued  to  be  printed  long  after  he  had  re 
moved  to  another  city.  Nowadays  nothing 
from  the  pulpit  that  is  not  sensational  is 
considered  worth  printing.  And  the  parson 
has  lost  his  social  importance,  moving  back 
slowly  toward  his  old  place  below  the  salt.  He 
used  to  be  "  asked,"  even  if  he  was  not  sincerely 
"expected"  at  the  functions  given  by  his  par 
ishioners  ;  but  this  has  changed  now  that  fewer 
families  have  any  parson  to  invite. 

A  minister's  is  indubitably  the  hardest 
imaginable  lot.  Every  one  criticizes  him.  He  is 
abused  for  illiberality,  or,  seeking  to  be  all 
things  to  all  men,  he  is  abused  for  consorting 
with  sinners.  His  door-bell  tinkles  hourly,  and 
he  must  answer  the  behest  of  people  he  does  not 
know,  to  marry  or  bury  people  he  never  heard 
of.  He  is  expected  to  preach  eloquently,  to 
augment  his  flock,  to  keep  a  hand  on  the  Sun 
day  school,  to  sit  on  platforms  in  the  interest 
of  all  good  causes,  and  to  bear  himself  with  dis 
cretion  amid  the  tortuous  mazes  of  church  and 
secular  politics.  There  seem  to  be,  in  churches 
of  all  kinds,  ambitious  pontiffs  —  lay  popes  — 
possessed  of  an  ambition  to  hold  both  their  fel- 

136 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

low  laymen  and  their  meek,  long-suffering  min 
ister  in  subjection.  Why  anyone  should  wish  to 
be  a  church  boss  I  do  not  know;  and  yet  the  su 
premacy  is  sometimes  won  after  a  struggle  that 
has  afforded  the  keenest  delight  to  the  cynical 
Smiths  on  the  outside.  One  must  view  these 
internecine  wars  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 
They  certainly  contribute  not  a  little  to  popular 
distrust  of  the  church  as  a  conservator  of  love 
and  peace. 

There  are  men  in  the  ministry  who  can  have 
had  no  clear  vocation  to  the  clerical  life;  but 
there  are  misfits  and  failures  in  all  professions. 
Some  of  these,  through  bigotry  or  stupidity,  do 
much  to  justify  Smith's  favorite  dictum  that 
there  is  as  much  Christianity  outside  the  church 
as  within  it.  Now  and  then  I  find  a  Smith 
whose  distrust  of  religion  is  based  upon  some 
disagreeable  adventure  with  a  clergyman,  and  I 
can't  deny  that  my  own  experiences  with  the 
cloth  have  been,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  dis 
turbing.  As  to  the  more  serious  of  these  I  may 
not  speak,  but  I  shall  mention  two  incidents, 
for  the  reason  that  they  are  such  trifles  as  affect 
Smith  with  joy.  Once  in  a  parish-meeting  I  saw 

137 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

a  bishop  grossly  humiliated  for  having  under 
taken  to  rebuke  a  young  minister  for  wearing  a 
chasuble,  or  not  wearing  it,  or  for  removing  it 
in  the  pulpit,  or  the  other  way  round, — at  any 
rate,  it  was  some  such  momentous  point  in 
ecclesiastical  millinery  that  had  loosened  a 
frightful  fury  of  recrimination.  The  very  sight 
or  suggestion  of  chasubles  has  ever  since  awak 
ened  in  me  the  most  unchristian  resentment. 
While  we  fought  over  the  chasuble  I  suppose 
people  actually  died  within  bow-shot  of  the 
church  without  knowing  that  "if  any  man  sin 
we  have  an  advocate  with  the  Father,  Jesus 
Christ  the  Righteous." 

And  speaking  of  bishops,  I  venture  the  inter 
polation  that  that  office,  believed  by  many  to 
be  the  softest  berth  in  Zion  as  it  exists  in  the 
Episcopal  Church,  is  in  fact  the  most  vexatious 
and  thankless  to  which  any  man  can  aspire;  nor 
have  I  in  mind  the  laborious  lives  of  adventur 
ous  spirits  like  Whipple,  Hare,  and  Rowe,  but 
others  who  carry  the  burdens  of  established 
dioceses,  where  the  troubles  of  one  minister  are 
multiplied  upon  the  apostolic  head  by  the 
number  of  parishes  in  his  jurisdiction. 

138 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

Again,  at  a  summer  resort  on  our  North 
Atlantic  Coast  once  familiar  to  me,  there  stood, 
within  reach  of  fierce  seas,  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  churches.  It  was  sought  daily  by 
visitors,  and  many  women,  walking  the  shore, 
used  to  pause  there  to  rest,  for  prayer,  or  out  of 
sheer  curiosity.  And  yet  it  appeared  that  no 
woman  might  venture  into  this  edifice  hatless. 
The  locum  tenens,  recalling  St.  Paul's  question 
whether  it  is  "comely  that  a  woman  pray  unto 
God  uncovered,"  was  so  outraged  by  the  visits 
of  hatless  women  to  the  church  that  he  tacked  a 
notice  on  the  door  setting  forth  in  severe  terms 
that,  whereas  men  should  enter  the  church 
bareheaded,  women  should  not  desecrate  the 
temple  by  entering  uncovered.  I  remember 
that  when  I  had  read  that  warning,  duly  signed 
with  the  clergyman's  name,  I  sat  down  on  the 
rocks  and  looked  at  the  ocean  for  a  long  time, 
marveling  that  a  sworn  servant  of  God,  conse 
crated  in  his  service  by  the  apostles'  successors, 
able  to  spend  a  couple  of  months  at  one  of  the 
pleasantest  summer  resorts  in  America,  should 
have  been  horror-struck  at  the  unholy  intrusion 
of  a  hatless  girl  in  his  church,  when  people  in 
139 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

the  hot  city  he  had  fled  suffered  and  died, 
ignorant  of  the  very  name  of  Christ. 

IV 

"My  church  home"  is  an  old  phrase  one  still 
hears  in  communities  whose  social  life  is  not 
yet  wholly  divorced  from  the  church.  There  is 
something  pleasant  and  reassuring  in  the  sound 
of  it;  and  I  do  not  believe  we  shall  ever  have  in 
America  an  adequate  substitute  for  that  tran- 
quility  and  peace  which  are  still  observable  in 
towns  where  the  church  retains  its  hold  upon 
the  larger  part  of  the  community,  and  where  it 
exercises  a  degree  of  compulsion  upon  men  and 
women  who  find  in  its  life  a  faith  and  hope  that 
have  proved  not  the  least  strong  of  the  bul 
warks  of  democracy.  In  wholly  strange  towns  I 
have  experienced  the  sense  of  this  in  a  way  I  am 
reluctant  to  think  wholly  sentimental.  Where, 
on  crisp  winter  evenings,  the  young  people 
come  trooping  happily  in  from  the  meetings  of 
their  own  auxiliary  societies,  where  vim  and 
energy  are  apparent  in  the  gathering  congrega 
tion,  and  where  one  sees  with  half  an  eye  that 
the  pastor  is  a  true  leader  and  shepherd  of  his 

140 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

flock  —  in  such  a  picture  there  must  be,  for 
many  of  us,  something  that  lays  deep  hold  upon 
the  heart.  They  are  not  concerned  in  such 
gatherings  with  higher  criticism,  but  with 
cleanness  and  wholesomeness  of  life,  and  with 
that  faith,  never  to  be  too  closely  scrutinized  or 
analyzed,  that  "singeth  low  in  every  heart." 

One  might  weep  to  think  how  rare  those 
pictures  must  become  —  one  might  weep  if 
there  were  not  the  great  problems  now  forced 
upon  us,  of  chance  and  change,  that  drive  home 
to  all  thinking  men  and  women  the  great  need 
of  infusing  the  life  of  the  spirit  into  our  indus 
trial  and  political  struggles.  If,  in  the  end,  our 
great  experiment  in  self-government  fail,  it 
will  be  through  the  loss  of  those  spiritual  forces 
which  from  the  beginning  have  guided  and 
ruled  us.  It  is  only  lately  that  we  have  begun 
to  hear  of  Christian  socialism,  and  a  plausible 
phrase  it  is;  but  true  democracy  seems  to  me 
essentially  Christian.  When  we  shall  have 
thoroughly  christianized  our  democracy,  and 
democratized  our  Christianity,  we  shall  not 
longer  yield  to  moods  of  despair,  or  hearken 
to  prophets  of  woe. 

HI 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

The  Smith  for  whom  I  presume  to  speak  is 
not  indifferent  to  the  call  of  revitalized  democ 
racy.  He  has  confessed  to  me  his  belief  that  the 
world  is  a  kindlier  place,  and  that  more  agen 
cies  of  helpfulness  are  at  work,  than  ever  be 
fore;  and  to  restore  the  recalcitrant  Smith  to 
the  church  it  is  necessary  first  of  all  to  convince 
him  that  the  church  honestly  seeks  to  be  the 
chief  of  such  agencies.  The  Young  Men's 
Christian  Association,  the  Charity  Organiza 
tion  Society,  and  the  Settlement  House  all 
afford  outlets  for  Smith's  generous  benevo 
lences.  And  it  was  a  dark  day  for  the  church 
when  she  allowed  these  multiplying  philanthro 
pies  to  slip  away  from  her.  Smith  points  to 
them  with  a  flourish,  and  says  that  he  prefers 
to  give  his  money  where  it  is  put  to  practical 
use.  To  him  the  church  is  an  economic  parasite, 
doing  business  on  one  day  of  the  week,  immune 
from  taxation,  and  the  last  of  his  neighbors  to 
scrape  the  snow  from  her  sidewalks!  The  fact 
that  there  are  within  fifteen  minutes'  walk  of 
his  house  half  a  dozen  churches,  all  struggling 
to  maintain  themselves,  and  making  no  appreci 
able  impression  upon  the  community,  is  not 

142 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

lost  upon  Smith,  —  the  practical,  unemotional, 
busy  Smith.  Smith  speaks  to  me  with  sincere 
admiration  of  his  friend,  the  Salvation  Army 
major,  to  whom  he  opens  his  purse  ungrudg 
ingly;  but  the  church  over  the  way  —  that 
grim  expensive  pile  of  stone,  closed  for  all  but 
five  or  six  hours  of  the  week !  —  Smith  shakes 
his  head  ruefully  when  you  suggest  it.  It  is  to 
him  a  bad  investment  that  ought  to  be  turned 
over  to  a  receiver  for  liquidation. 

Smith's  wife  has  derived  bodily  and  spiritual 
help  from  Christian  Science,  and  Smith  speaks 
with  respect  of  that  cult.  He  is  half  persuaded 
that  there  must  be  something  in  it.  A  great 
many  of  the  Smiths  who  never  had  a  church  tie, 
or  who  gave  up  church-going,  have  allied  them 
selves  with  Christian  Science,  —  what  many  of 
Mrs.  Eddy's  followers  in  familiar  talk  abbrevi 
ate  as  "Science,"  as  though  Science  were  the 
more  important  half  of  it.  This  proves  at  least 
that  the  Smiths  are  not  averse  to  some  sort  of 
spiritual  food,  or  quite  clearly  demonstrates  a 
dissatisfaction  with  the  food  they  had  formerly 
received.  It  proves  also  that  the  old  childlike 
faith  in  miracles  is  still  possible  even  in  our 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

generation.  Christian  Science  struts  in  robes  of 
prosperity  in  my  bailiwick,  and  its  followers 
pain  and  annoy  me  only  by  their  cheerful  as 
sumption  that  they  have  just  discovered  God. 
Smith's  plight  becomes,  then,  more  serious 
the  more  we  ponder  his  case;  but  the  plight  of 
the  church  is  not  less  grave  to  those  who,  feeling 
that  Christianity  has  still  its  greatest  work  to 
do,  are  anxious  for  its  rejuvenation.  As  to 
whether  the  church  should  go  to  Smith,  or 
Smith  should  seek  the  church,  there  can  be  no 
debate.  Smith  will  not  seek  the  church;  it  must 
be  on  the  church's  initiative  that  he  is  restored 
to  it.  The  Layman's  Forward  Movement  testi 
fies  to  the  awakened  interest  of  the  churches  in 
Smith.  As  I  pen  these  pages  I  pick  up  a  New 
York  newspaper  and  find  on  the  pages  devoted 
to  sports  an  advertisement  signed  by  the  Men 
and  Religion  Forward  Movement,  calling  atten 
tion  to  the  eight  hundred  and  eighty  churches, 
Protestant  and  Catholic,  and  the  one  hundred 
and  seven  synagogues  in  the  metropolis,  —  the 
beginning,  I  believe,  of  a  campaign  of  advertis 
ing  on  sporting  pages.  I  repeat,  that  I  wish  to 
belittle  no  honest  effort  in  any  quarter  or  under 

144 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

any  auspices  to  interest  men  in  the  spiritual  life; 
but  I  cannot  forbear  mentioning  that  Smith  has 
already  smiled  disagreeably  at  this  effort  to 
catch  his  attention.  Still,  if  Smith,  looking  for 
the  baseball  score,  is  reminded  that  the  church 
is  interested  in  his  welfare,  I  am  not  one  to  sit 
in  the  scorner's  seat. 

v 

A  panacea  for  the  ills  of  the  church  is  some 
thing  no  one  expects  to  find;  and  those  who  are 
satisfied  with  the  church  as  it  stands,  and  be 
lieve  it  to  be  unmenaced  by  danger,  —  who  see 
the  Will  of  God  manifested  even  in  Smith's 
disaffection,  will  not  be  interested  in  my  opinion 
that,  of  all  the  suggestions  that  have  been  made 
for  the  renewal  of  the  church's  life,  church 
union,  upon  the  broadest  lines,  directed  to  the 
increase  of  the  church's  efficiency  in  spiritual 
and  social  service,  is  the  one  most  likely  to  bring 
Smith  back  to  the  fold.  Moreover,  I  believe 
that  Smith's  aid  should  be  invoked  in  the  busi 
ness  of  unification,  for  the  reason  that  on  pa 
triotic  grounds,  if  no  other,  he  is  vitally  con 
cerned  in  the  welding  of  Christianity  and  de- 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

mocracy  more  firmly  together.  Church  union 
has  long  been  the  despair  and  the  hope  of 
many  sincere,  able,  and  devoted  men,  who 
have  at  heart  the  best  interests  of  Christendom, 
and  it  is  impossible  that  any  great  number  of 
Protestants  except  the  most  bigoted  reaction 
aries  can  distrust  the  results  of  union. 

The  present  crisis  —  for  it  is  not  less  than 
that  —  calls  for  more  immediate  action  by  all 
concerned  than  seems  imminent.  We  have 
heard  for  many  years  that  "in  God's  own  time" 
union  would  be  effected;  and  yet  union  is  far 
from  being  realized.  The  difficulty  of  operating 
through  councils  and  conventions  is  manifest. 
These  bodies  move  necessarily  and  properly 
with  great  deliberation.  Before  the  great 
branches  of  Protestantism  have  reconciled  their 
differences,  and  agreed  upon  a  modus  Vivendi,  it 
is  quite  possible  that  another  ten  or  twenty 
years  may  pass;  and  in  the  present  state  of  the 
churches,  time  is  of  the  essence  of  preservation 
and  security. 

While  we  await  action  by  the  proposed  World 
Conference  for  the  consideration  of  questions 
touching  "faith  and  order,"  much  can  be  done 

146 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

toward  crystallizing  sentiment  favorable  to 
union.  A  letter  has  been  issued  to  its  clergy  by 
the  Episcopal  Church,  urging  such  profitable 
use  of  the  interval  of  waiting;  and  I  dare  say  the 
same  spirit  prevails  in  other  communions.  A 
purely  sentimental  union  will  not  suffice,  nor  is 
the  question  primarily  one  for  theologians  or 
denominational  partisans,  but  for  those  who 
believe  that  there  is  inherent  in  the  method  and 
secret  of  Jesus  something  very  precious  that  is 
now  seriously  jeopardized,  and  that  the  time  is 
at  hand  for  saving  it,  and  broadening  and 
deepening  the  channel  through  which  it  reaches 
mankind. 

VI 

In  the  end,  unity,  if  it  ever  take  practical 
form,  must  become  a  local  question.  This  is 
certainly  true  in  so  far  as  the  urban  field  is  con 
cerned,  and  I  may  say  in  parenthesis  that,  in 
my  own  state,  the  country  churches  are  already 
practicing  a  kind  of  unification,  in  regions  where 
the  automobile  and  the  interurban  railway 
make  it  possible  for  farm  and  village  folk  to  run 
into  town  to  church.  Many  rural  churches  have 
been  abandoned  and  boarded  up,  their  congre- 

147 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

gallons  in  this  way  forming  new  religious  and 
social  units.  I  suggest  that  in  towns  and  cities 
where  the  weaknesses  resulting  from  denomina 
tional  rivalry  are  most  apparent,  the  problems 
of  unification  be  taken  up  in  a  purely  local  way. 
I  propose  the  appointment  of  local  commis 
sions,  representative  of  all  Protestant  bodies,  to 
study  the  question  and  devise  plans  for  increas 
ing  the  efficiency  of  existing  churches,  and  to 
consider  ways  and  means  of  bringing  the  church 
into  vital  touch  with  the  particular  community 
under  scrutiny.  This  should  be  done  in  a  spirit 
of  absolute  honesty,  without  envy,  hatred,  or 
malice.  The  test  of  service  should  be  applied 
relentlessly,  and  every  religious  society  should 
make  an  honest  showing  of  its  conditions  and 
needs. 

Upon  the  trial-balance  thus  struck  there 
should  be,  wherever  needed,  an  entirely  new 
redistribution  of  church  property,  based  wholly 
upon  local  and  neighborhood  needs.  For  ex 
ample,  the  familiar,  badly  housed,  struggling 
mission  in  an  industrial  centre  would  be  able 
at  once  to  anticipate  the  fruits  of  years  of 
labor,  through  the  elimination  of  unnecessary 
148 


Should  Smith  go  to   Church? 

churches  in  quarters  already  over-supplied. 
Not  only  should  body  and  soul  be  cared  for  in 
the  vigorous  institutional  church,  the  church  of 
the  future,  but  there  is  no  reason  why  the  pro 
gramme  should  not  include  theatrical  enter 
tainments,  conceits,  and  dances.  Many  signs 
encourage  the  belief  that  the  drama  has  a 
great  future  in  America,  and  the  reorganized, 
redistributed  churches  might  well  seize  upon  it 
as  a  powerful  auxiliary  and  ally.  Scores  of 
motion-picture  shows  in  every  city  testify  to 
the  growing  demand  for  amusement,  and  they 
conceal  much  mischief;  and  the  public  dance- 
house  is  a  notorious  breeder  of  vice. 

Let  us  consider  that  millions  of  dollars  are 
invested  in  American  churches,  which  are,  in 
the  main,  open  only  once  or  twice  a  week,  and 
that  fear  of  defiling  the  temple  is  hardly  justi 
fication  for  the  small  amount  of  actual  service 
performed  by  the  greater  number  of  churches 
of  the  old  type.  By  introducing  amusements, 
the  institutional  church  —  the  "department 
church,"  if  you  like  —  would  not  only  meet  a 
need,  but  it  would  thus  eliminate  many  ele 
ments  of  competition.  The  people  living  about 
149 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

a  strong  institutional  church  would  find  it,  in  a 
new  sense,  "a  church  home."  The  doors  should 
stand  open  seven  days  in  the  week  to  "all  such 
as  have  erred  and  are  deceived";  and  men  and 
women  should  be  waiting  at  the  portals  "to 
comfort  and  help  the  weak-hearted;  and  to 
raise  up  those  who  fall." 

If  in  a  dozen  American  cities  having  from 
fifty  thousand  to  two  or  three  hundred  thou 
sand  inhabitants,  this  practical  local  approach 
toward  union  should  be  begun  in  the  way  indi 
cated,  the  data  adduced  would  at  least  be  of 
importance  to  the  convocations  that  must  ulti 
mately  pass  upon  the  question.  Just  such  facts 
and  figures  as  could  be  collected  by  local  com 
missions  would  naturally  be  required,  finally,  in 
any  event;  and  much  time  would  be  saved  by 
anticipating  the  call  for  such  reports. 

I  am  familiar  with  the  argument  that  many 
sorts  of  social  service  are  better  performed  by 
non-sectarian  societies,  and  we  have  all  wit 
nessed  the  splendid  increase  of  secular  effort  in 
lines  feebly  attacked  and  relinquished,  as 
though  with  a  grateful  sigh,  by  the  churches. 
When  the  Salvation  Army's  trumpet  and  drum 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church? 

first  sounded  in  the  market-place,  we  were  told 
that  that  valiant  organization  could  do  a  work 
impossible  for  the  churches;  when  the  Settle 
ment  House  began  to  appear  in  American  cities, 
that,  too,  was  undertaking  something  better  left 
to  the  sociologist.  Those  prosperous  organiza 
tions  of  Christian  young  men  and  women, 
whose  investment  in  property  in  our  American 
cities  is  now  very  great,  are,  also,  we  are  as 
sured,  performing  a  service  which  the  church 
could  not  properly  have  undertaken.  Charity 
long  ago  moved  out  of  the  churches,  and  estab 
lished  headquarters  in  an  office  with  typewriter 
and  telephone. 

If  it  is  true  that  the  service  here  indicated  is 
better  performed  by  secular  organizations,  why 
is  it  that  the  power  of  the  church  has  steadily 
waned  ever  since  these  losses  began?  Certainly 
there  is  little  in  the  present  state  of  American 
Protestantism  to  afford  comfort  to  those  who 
believe  thataone-day-a-week  church,  whose  ap 
paratus  is  limited  to  a  pulpit  in  the  auditorium, 
and  a  map  of  the  Holy  Land  in  the  Sunday- 
school  room,  is  presenting  a  veritable,  living 
Christ  to  the  hearts  and  imaginations  of  men. 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

And  on  the  bright  side  of  the  picture  it  should 
be  said  that  nothing  in  the  whole  field  of  Chris 
tian  endeavor  is  more  encouraging  or  inspiring 
than  an  examination  of  the  immense  social  ser 
vice  performed  under  the  auspices  of  various 
religious  organizations  in  New  York  City.  This 
has  been  particularly  marked  in  the  Episcopal 
Church.  The  late  Bishop  Potter,  and  his  suc 
cessor  in  the  metropolitan  diocese,  early  gave 
great  impetus  to  social  work,  and  those  who 
contend  that  the  church's  sole  business  is  to 
preach  the  Word  of  God  will  find  a  new  revela 
tion  of  the  significance  of  that  Word  by  a  study 
of  the  labors  of  half  a  dozen  parishes  that  ex 
emplify  every  hour  of  every  day  the  possibilities 
of  efficient  Christian  democracy. 

The  church  has  lost  ground  that  perhaps 
never  can  be  recovered.  Those  who  have  estab 
lished  secular  settlements  for  the  poor,  or  those 
who  have  created  homes  for  homeless  young 
men  and  women,  can  hardly  be  asked  to  "pool " 
and  divide  their  property  with  the  churches. 
But,  verily,  even  with  all  the  many  agencies 
now  at  work  to  ameliorate  distress  and  uplift 
the  fallen,  the  fields  continue  white  already  to 

152 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

the  harvest,  and  the  laborers  are  few.  With  the 
church  revitalized,  and  imbued  with  the  spirit 
of  utility  and  efficiency  so  potent  in  our  time,  it 
may  plant  its  wavering  banner  securely  on  new 
heights.  It  may  show  that  all  these  organiza 
tions  that  have  sapped  its  strength,  and  dimin 
ished  the  force  of  its  testimony  before  men, 
have  derived  their  inspiration  from  Him  who 
came  out  of  Nazareth  to  lighten  all  the  world. 

VII 

The  reorganization  of  the  churches  along  the 
line  I  have  indicated  would  work  hardship  on 
many  ministers.  It  would  not  only  mean  that 
many  clergymen  would  find  themselves  seri 
ously  disturbed  in  positions  long  held  under  the 
old  order,  but  that  preparation  for  the  ministry 
would  necessarily  be  conducted  along  new 
lines.  The  training  that  now  fits  a  student  to  be 
the  pastor  of  a  one-day-a-week  church  would  be 
worthless  in  a  unified  and  socialized  church. 

"There  are  diversities  of  gifts";  but  "it  is  the 
same  God  which  worketh  all  in  all."  In  the 
departmental  church,  with  its  chapel  or  temple 
fitly  adorned,  the  preaching  of  Christ's  message 

153 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

would  not  be  done  by  a  weary  minister  worn  by 
the  thousand  vexatious  demands  upon  a  min 
ister's  time,  but  by  one  specially  endowed  with 
the  preaching  gift.  In  this  way  the  prosperous 
congregation  would  not  enjoy  a  monopoly  of 
good  preaching.  Men  gifted  in  pastoral  work 
would  specialize  in  that,  and  the  relationship 
between  the  church  and  the  home,  which  has 
lost  its  old  fineness  and  sweetness,  would  be 
restored.  Men  trained  in  that  field  would  direct 
the  undertakings  frankly  devised  to  provide 
recreation  and  amusement.  Already  the  school- 
house  in  our  cities  is  being  put  to  social  use;  in 
the  branch  libraries  given  by  Mr.  Carnegie  to 
my  city,  assembly-rooms  and  kitchens  are  pro 
vided  to  encourage  social  gatherings ;  and  here 
is  another  opportunity  still  open  to  the  church 
if  it  hearken  to  the  call  of  the  hour. 

In  this  unified  and  rehabilitated  church  of 
which  I  speak,  —  the  every-day-in-the-week 
church,  open  to  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men, 
—  what  would  become  of  the  creeds  and  the 
old  theology?  I  answer  this  first  of  all  by  saying 
that  coalition  in  itself  would  be  a  supreme  de 
monstration  of  the  enduring  power  and  glory  of 

IS4 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

Christianity.  Those  who  are  jealous  for  the 
integrity  of  the  ancient  faith  would  manifestly 
have  less  to  defend,  for  the  church  would  be 
speaking  for  herself  in  terms  understood  of  all 
men.  The  seven-day  church,  being  built  upon 
efficiency  and  aiming  at  definite  results,  could 
afford  to  suffer  men  to  think  as  they  liked  on 
the  virgin  birth,  the  miracles,  and  the  resurrec 
tion  of  the  body,  if  they  faithfully  practiced  the 
precepts  of  Jesus. 

This  busy,  helpful,  institutional  church,  wel 
coming  under  one  roof  men  of  all  degrees,  to 
broaden,  sweeten,  and  enlighten  their  lives,  need 
ask  no  more  of  those  who  accept  its  service 
than  that  they  believe  in  a  God  who  ever  lives 
and  loves,  and  in  Christ,  who  appeared  on  earth 
in  His  name  to  preach  justice,  mercy,  charity, 
and  kindness.  I  should  not  debate  metaphysics 
through  a  barred  wicket  with  men  who  needed 
the  spiritual  or  physical  help  of  the  church,  any 
more  than  my  neighbor,  Smith,  that  prince  of 
good  fellows,  would  ask  a  hungry  tramp  to  saw 
a  cord  of  wood  before  he  gave  him  his  breakfast. 

Questions  of  liturgy  can  hardly  be  a  bar,  nor 
can  the  validity  of  Christian  orders  in  one  body 

155 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

or  another  weigh  heavily  with  any  who  are  sin 
cerely  concerned  for  the  life  of  the  church  and 
the  widening  of  its  influence.  "And  other  sheep 
I  have,  which  are  not  of  this  fold:  them  also  I 
must  bring,  and  they  shall  hear  my  voice;  and 
they  shall  become  one  flock,  one  shepherd."  I 
have  watched  ministers  in  practically  every 
Christian  church  take  bread  and  break  it,  and 
bless  the  cup,  and  offer  it  in  the  name  of  Jesus, 
and  I  have  never  been  able  to  feel  that  the  sac 
rament  was  not  as  efficacious  when  received 
reverently  from  one  as  from  another. 

If  wisdom  and  goodness  are  God,  then  fool 
ish,  indeed,  is  he  who  would  "misdefine  these 
till  God  knows  them  no  more."  The  unified 
seven-day  church  would  neglect  none  of  "the 
weightier  matters  of  the  law,  justice  and  mercy 
and  faith,"  in  the  collecting  of  tithe  of  mint  and 
anise  and  cummin.  It  would  not  deny  its  bene 
fits  to  those  of  us  who  are  unblest  with  deep 
spiritual  perception,  for  it  is  by  the  grace  of 
God  that  we  are  what  we  are.  "  I  will  pray  with 
the  spirit,  and  I  will  pray  with  the  understand 
ing  also:  I  will  sing  with  the  spirit  and  I  will 
sing  with  the  understanding  also.  Else  if  thou 

'156 


Should  Smith  go  to  Church  ? 

bless  with  the  spirit,  how  shall  he  that  filleth 
the  place  of  the  unlearned  say  the  Amen  at  thy 
giving  of  thanks,  seeing  he  knoweth  not  what 
thou  sayest?" 

"  Hath  man  no  second  life?  —  Pitch  this  one  high  ! 

Sits  there  no  judge  in  Heaven  our  sins  to  see?  — 
More  strictly,  then,  the  inward  judge  obey  I 
Was  Christ  a  man  like  us?  Ah,  let  us  try 
If  we,  then,  too,  can  be  such  men  as  he  /" 

Somewhere  there  is  a  poem  that  relates  the 
experience  of  a  certain  humble  priest,  who 
climbed  the  steeple  of  his  church  to  commune 
more  nearly  with  God.;  And,  as  he  prayed,  he 
heard  the  Voice  answering,  and  asked,  "Where 
art  thou,  Lord?"  and  the  Lord  replied,  "Down 
here,  among  my  people!" 


The  Tired  Business  Man 


The  Tired  Business  Man 


SMITH  flashed  upon  me  unexpectedly  in 
Berlin.  It  was  nearly  a  year  ago,  just  be 
fore  the  summer  invasion  of  tourists,  and  I  was 
reading  the  letters  of  a  belated  mail  over  my 
coffee,  when  I  was  aroused  by  an  unmistakable 
American  voice  demanding  water.  I  turned 
and  beheld,  in  a  sunny  alcove  at  the  end  of  the 
restaurant,  my  old  friend  Smith  who  had 
dropped  his  newspaper  for  the  purpose  of  ar 
raigning  a  frightened  and  obtuse  waiter  for  his 
inability  to  grasp  the  idea  that  persons  in  ordi 
nary  health,  and  reasonably  sane,  do,  at  times, 
use  water  as  a  beverage.  It  was  not  merely  the 
alarmed  waiter  and  all  his  tribe  that  Smith 
execrated:  he  swept  Prussia  and  the  German 
Empire  into  the  limbo  of  lost  nations.  Mrs. 
Smith  begged  him  to  be  calm,  offering  the  plaus 
ible  suggestion  that  the  waiter  could  n't  under 
stand  a  word  of  English.  She  appealed  to  a 
third  member  of  the  breakfast  party,  a  young 

161 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

lady,  whose  identity  had  puzzled  me  for  a 
moment.  It  seemed  incredible  that  this  could 
be  the  Smiths'  Fanny,  whom  I  had  dandled 
on  my  knee  in  old  times,  —  and  yet  a  second 
glance  convinced  me  that  the  young  person  was 
no  unlikely  realization  of  the  promise  of  the 
Fanny  who  had  ranged  our  old  neighborhood  at 
"home"  and  appalled  us,  even  at  five,  by  her 
direct  and  pointed  utterances.  If  the  child  may 
be  mother  to  the  woman,  this  was  that  identical 
Fanny.  I  should  have  known  it  from  the  cool 
fashion  in  which  she  dominated  the  situation, 
addressing  the  relieved  waiter  in  his  own 
tongue,  with  the  result  that  he  fled  precipitately 
in  search  of  water  —  and  ice,  if  any,  indeed, 
were  obtainable  —  for  the  refreshment  of  these 
eccentric  Americans. 

When  I  crossed  to  their  table  I  found  Smith 
still  growling  while  he  tried  to  find  his  lost  place 
in  the  New  York  stock  market  in  his  London 
newspaper.  My  appearance  was  the  occasion 
for  a  full  recital  of  his  wrongs,  in  that  amusing 
hyperbole  which  is  so  refreshing  in  all  the 
Smiths  I  know.  He  begged  me  to  survey  the 
table,  that  I  might  enjoy  his  triumph  in  having 

162 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

been  able  to  surmount  local  prejudice  and  pro 
cure  for  himself  what  he  called  a  breakfast  of 
civilized  food.  The  continental  breakfast  was 
to  him  an  odious  thing:  he  announced  his  inten 
tion  of  exposing  it;  he  meant  to  publish  its 
iniquity  to  the  world  and  drive  it  out  of  busi 
ness.  Mrs.  Smith  laughed  nervously.  She  ap 
peared  anxious  and  distraught  and  I  was  smit 
ten  with  pity  for  her.  But  there  was  a  twinkle 
in  Miss  Smith's  eye,  a  smile  about  her  pretty 
lips,  that  discounted  heavily  the  paternal  fury. 
She  communicated,  with  a  glance,  a  sense  of  her 
own  attitude  toward  her  father's  indignation: 
it  did  not  matter  a  particle;  it  was  merely 
funny,  that  was  all,  that  her  father,  who  de 
manded  and  commanded  all  things  on  his  own 
soil,  should  here  be  helpless  to  obtain  a  drop  of 
cold  water  with  which  to  slake  his  thirst  when 
every  one  knew  that  he  could  have  bought  the 
hotel  itself  with  a  scratch  of  the  pen.  When 
Smith  asked  me  to  account  for  the  prevalence  of 
hydrophobia  in  Europe  it  was  really  for  the  joy 
of  hearing  his  daughter  laugh.  And  it  is  well 
worth  anyone's  while  to  evoke  laughter  from 
Fanny.  For  Fanny  is  one  of  the  prettiest  girls 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

in  the  world,  one  of  the  cleverest,  one  of  the 
most  interesting  and  amusing. 

n 

As  we  lingered  at  the  table  (water  with  ice 
having  arrived  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  flying 
triumphantly  over  the  pitcher),  I  was  brought 
up  to  date  as  to  the  recent  history  of  the 
Smiths.  As  an  old  neighbor  from  home  they 
welcomed  me  to  their  confidence.  The  wife  and 
daughter  had  been  abroad  a  year  with  Munich 
as  their  chief  base.  Smith's  advent  had  been 
unexpected  and  disturbing.  Rest  and  change 
having  been  prescribed,  he  had  jumped  upon  a 
steamer  and  the  day  before  our  encounter  had 
joined  his  wife  and  daughter  in  Berlin.  They 
were  waiting  now  for  a  conference  with  a  Ger 
man  neurologist  to  whom  Smith  had  been  con 
signed  —  in  desperation,  I  fancied  —  by  his 
American  doctor.  Mrs.  Smith's  distress  was  as 
evident  as  his  own  irritation;  Miss  Fanny  alone 
seemed  wholly  tranquil.  She  ignored  the  ap 
parent  gravity  of  the  situation  and  assured  me 
that  her  father  had  at  last  decided  upon  a  long 
vacation.  She  declared  that  if  her  father  per- 
164 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

sisted  in  his  intention  of  sailing  for  New  York 
three  weeks  later,  she  and  her  mother  would 
accompany  him. 

While  we  talked  a  cablegram  was  brought  to 
Smith;  he  read  it  and  frowned.  Mrs.  Smith  met 
my  eyes  and  shook  her  head;  Fanny  frugally 
subtracted  two  thirds  of  the  silver  Smith  was 
leaving  on  the  tray  as  a  tip  and  slipped  it  into 
her  purse.  It  was  a  handsome  trinket,  the 
purse;  Fanny's  appointments  all  testified  to 
Smith's  prosperity  and  generosity.  I  remem 
bered  these  friends  so  well  in  old  times,  when 
they  lived  next  door  to  me  in  the  Mid-Western 
town  which  Smith,  ten  years  before,  had  out 
grown  and  abandoned.  His  income  had  in  my 
observation  jumped  from  two  to  twenty  thou 
sand,  and  no  one  knew  now  to  what  fabulous 
height  it  had  climbed.  He  was  one  of  the  men 
to  reckon  with  in  the  larger  affairs  of  "Big 
Business."  And  here  was  the  wife  who  had 
shared  his  early  struggles,  and  the  child  born  of 
those  contented  years,  and  here  was  Smith, 
with  whom  in  the  old  days  I  had  smoked  my 
after-breakfast  cigar  on  the  rear  platform  of  a 
street  car  in  our  town,  that  we  then  thought  the 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

"best  town  on  earth,"  —  here  were  my  old 
neighbors  in  a  plight  that  might  well  tax  the 
renowned  neurologist's  best  powers. 

What  had  happened  to  Smith?  I  asked  my 
self;  and  the  question  was  also  in  his  wife's 
wondering  eyes.  And  as  we  dallied,  Smith 
fingered  his  newspaper  fretfully  while  I  an 
swered  his  wife's  questions  about  our  common 
acquaintances  at  "home"  as  she  still  called  our 
provincial  capital. 

It  was  not  my  own  perspicacity  but  Fanny's 
which  subsequently  made  possible  an  absolute 
diagnosis  of  Smith's  case,  somewhat  before  the 
cautious  German  specialist  had  announced  it. 
From  data  supplied  by  Fanny  I  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  Smith  is  the  "tired  business 
man,"  and  only  one  of  a  great  number  of  Ameri 
can  Smiths  afflicted  with  the  same  malady,  — 
bruised,  nerve-worn  victims  of  our  malignant 
gods  of  success.  The  phrase,  as  I  shall  employ 
it  here,  connotes  not  merely  the  type  of  iron- 
gray  stock  broker  with  whom  we  have  been 
made  familiar  by  our  American  drama  of  busi 
ness  and  politics,  but  his  brother  (also  prema 
turely  gray  and  a  trifle  puffy  under  the  eyes) 

166 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

found  sedulously  burning  incense  before  Mam 
mon  in  every  town  of  one  hundred  thousand 
souls  in  America.  I  am  not  sure,  on  reflection, 
that  he  is  not  visible  in  thriving  towns  of 
twenty-five  thousand,  —  or  wherever  "col 
lateral"  and  "discount"  are  established  in  the 
local  idiom  and  the  cocktail  is  a  medium  of 
commercial  and  social  exchange.  The  phe 
nomena  presented  by  my  particular  Smith  are 
similar  to  those  observed  in  those  lesser  Smiths 
who  are  the  restless  and  dissatisfied  biggest 
frogs  in  smaller  puddles.  Even  the  farmers  are 
tired  of  contemplating  their  glowing  harvests 
and  bursting  barns  and  are  moving  to  town  to 
rest. 

in 

Is  it  possible  that  tired  men  really  wield  a 
considerable  power  and  influence  in  these  Amer 
ican  States  so  lately  wrested  from  savagery? 
Confirmation  of  this  reaches  us  through  many 
channels.  In  politics  we  are  assured  that  the 
tired  business  man  is  a  serious  obstructionist  in 
the  path  of  his  less  prosperous  and  less  weary 
brethren  engaged  upon  the  pursuit  of  happiness 
and  capable  of  enjoying  it  in  successes  that 

.  167 . 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

would  seem  contemptibly  meagre  to  Smith. 
Thousands  of  Smiths  who  have  not  yet  ripened 
for  the  German  specialists  are  nevertheless 
tired  enough  to  add  to  the  difficulty  of  securing 
so  simple  a  thing  as  reputable  municipal  gov 
ernment.  It  is  because  of  Smith's  weariness 
and  apathy  that  we  are  obliged  to  confess  that 
no  decent  man  will  accept  the  office  of  mayor 
in  our  American  cities. 

In  my  early  acquaintance  with  Smith  —  in 
those  simple  days  when  he  had  time  to  loaf  in 
my  office  and  talk  politics  —  an  ardent  patri 
otism  burned  in  him.  He  was  proud  of  his  an 
cestors  who  had  not  withheld  their  hand  all  the 
way  from  Lexington  to  York  town,  and  he  used 
to  speak  with  emotion  of  that  dark  winter  at 
Valley  Forge.  He  would  look  out  of  the  window 
upon  Washington  Street  and  declare,  with  a 
fine  sweep  of  the  hand,  that  "We  Ve  got  to  keep 
all  this;  we've  g9t  to  keep  it  for  these  people 
and  for  our  children."  He  had  not  been  above 
sitting  as  delegate  in  city  and  state  conventions, 
and  he  had  once  narrowly  escaped  a  nomination 
for  the  legislature.  The  industry  he  owned  and 
managed  was  a  small  affair  and  he  knew  all  the 

168 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

employees  by  name.  His  lucky  purchase  of  a 
patent  that  had  been  kicked  all  over  the  United 
States  before  the  desperate  inventor  offered  it 
to  him  had  sent  his  fortunes  spinning  into  mil 
lions  within  ten  years.  Our  cautious  banker 
who  had  vouchsafed  Smith  a  reasonable 
guarded  credit  in  the  old  days  had  watched, 
with  the  mild  cynical  smile  peculiar  to  conserv 
ative  bank  presidents,  the  rapid  enrollment  of 
Smith's  name  in  the  lists  of  directors  of  some  of 
the  solidest  corporations  known  to  Wall  Street. 
It  is  a  long  way  from  Washington  Street  to 
Wall  Street,  and  men  who  began  life  with  more 
capital  than  Smith  never  cease  marveling  at 
the  ease  with  which  he  effected  the  transition. 
Some  who  continue  where  he  left  them  in  the 
hot  furrows  stare  gloomily  after  him  and  ex 
claim  upon  the  good  luck  that  some  men  have. 
Smith's  abrupt  taking-off  would  cause  at  least  a 
momentary  chill  in  a  thousand  safety-vault 
boxes.  Smith's  patriotism,  which  in  the  old 
days,  when  he  liked  to  speak  of  America  as  the 
republic  of  the  poor,  and  when  he  knew  most  of 
the  "Commemoration  Ode"  and  all  of  the 
"Gettysburg  Address"  by  heart,  is  far  more 

.169 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

concrete  than  it  used  to  be.  When  Smith  visits 
Washington  during  the  sessions  of  Congress  the 
country  is  informed  of  it.  It  is  he  who  scrutin 
izes  new  senators  and  passes  upon  their  trust 
worthiness.  And  it  was  Smith  who,  after  one  of 
these  inspections,  said  of  a  member  of  our  upper 
chamber  that,  "He  's  all  right;  he  speaks  our 
language,"  meaning  not  the  language  of  the 
"Commemoration  Ode"  or  the  "Gettysburg 
Address,"  but  a  recondite  dialect  understood 
only  at  the  inner  gate  of  the  money-changers. 

IV 

No  place  was  ever  pleasanter  in  the  old  days 
than  the  sitting-room  of  Smith's  house.  It  was 
the  coziest  of  rooms  and  gave  the  lie  to  those 
who  have  maintained  that  civilization  is  im 
possible  around  a  register.  A  happy,  contented 
family  life  existed  around  that  square  of  per 
forated  iron  in  the  floor  of  the  Smiths'  sitting- 
room.  In  the  midst  of  arguments  on  life,  letters, 
the  arts,  politics,  and  what-not,  Smith  would, 
as  the  air  grew  chill  toward  midnight,  and 
when  Mrs.  Smith  went  to  forage  for  refresh 
ments  in  the  pantry,  descend  to  the  cellar  to 

170 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

renew  the  flagging  fires  of  the  furnace  with  his 
own  hands.  The  purchase  of  a  new  engraving, 
the  capture  of  a  rare  print,  was  an  event  to  be 
celebrated  by  the  neighbors.  We  went  to  the 
theatre  sometimes,  and  kept  track  of  the  affairs 
of  the  stage;  and  lectures  and  concerts  were  not 
beneath  us.  Mrs.  Smith  played  Chopin  charm 
ingly  on  a  piano  Smith  had  given  her  for  a 
Christmas  present  when  Fanny  was. three. 
They  were  not  above  belonging  to  our  neigh 
borhood  book  and  magazine  club,  and  when 
they  bought  a  book  it  was  a  good  one.  I  re 
member  our  discussions  of  George  Meredith 
and  Hardy  and  Howells,  and  how  we  saved 
Stockton's  stories  to  enjoy  reading  them  in 
company  around  the  register.  A  trip  to  New 
York  was  an  event  for  the  Smiths  in  those  days 
as  well  as  for  the  rest  of  us,  to  be  delayed  until 
just  the  right  moment  for  seeing  the  best 
plays,  and  an  opera,  with  an  afternoon  care 
fully  set  apart  for  the  Metropolitan  Museum. 
We  were  glad  the  Smiths  could  go,  even  if  the 
rest  of  us  could  n't;  for  they  told  us  all  so  gen 
erously  of  their  adventures  when  they  came 
back!  They  kept  a  "horse  and  buggy,"  and 

171 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

Mrs.  Smith  used  to  drive  to  the  factory  with 
Fanny  perched  beside  her  to  bring  Smith  home 
at  the  end  of  his  day's  work. 

In  those  days  the  Smiths  presented  a  picture 
before  which  one  might  be  pardoned  for  linger 
ing  in  admiration.  I  shall  resent  any  sugges 
tions  that  I  am  unconsciously  writing  <them 
down  as  American  bourgeois  with  the  con 
temptuous  insinuations  that  are  conveyed  by 
that  term.  Nor  were  they  Philistines,  but 
sound,  wholesome,  cheerful  Americans,  who 
bought  their  eggs  direct  from  "the  butter- 
man"  and  kept  a  jug  of  buttermilk  in  the  ice 
box.  I  assert  that  Smiths  of  their  type  were  and 
are,  wherever  they  still  exist,  an  encouragement 
and  a  hope  to  all  who  love  their  America. 
They  are  the  Americans  to  whom  Lincoln  be 
came  as  one  of  Plutarch's  men,  and  for  whom 
Longfellow  wrote  "The  Children's  Hour," 
and  on  whom  Howells  smiles  quizzically  and 
with  complete  understanding.  Thousands  of 
us  knew  thousands  of  these  Smiths  only  a  few 
years  ago,  all  the  way  from  Portland,  Maine,  to 
Portland,  Oregon.  I  linger  upon  them  affec 
tionately  as  I  have  known  and  loved  them  in 

172 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

the  Ohio  Valley,  but  I  have  enjoyed  glimpses 
of  them  in  Kansas  City  and  Omaha,  Minnea 
polis  and  Detroit,  and  know  perfectly  well  that 
I  should  find  them  realizing  to  the  full  life,  lib 
erty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness  in  many 
other  regions,  —  for  example,  with  only  slight 
differences  of  background,  in  Richmond,  Vir 
ginia,  and  Burlington,  Vermont.  And  in  all 
these  places  some  particular  Smith  is  always 
moving  to  Chicago  or  Boston  or  New  York  on 
his  way  to  a  sanatorium  or  Bad  Neuheim  and  a 
German  specialist!  Innumerable  Smiths,  not 
yet  so  prosperous  as  the  old  friend  I  encoun 
tered  in  Berlin,  are  abandoning  their  flower- 
gardens  and  the  cozy  verandas  (sacred  to 
neighborhood  confidences  on  the  long  summer 
evenings)  and  their  gusty  registers  for  compact 
and  steam-heated  apartments  with  only  the 
roof-garden  overhead  as  a  breathing-place. 

There  seems  to  be  no  field  in  which  the  weary 
Smith  is  not  exercising  a  baneful  influence.  We 
have  fallen  into  the  habit  of  laying  many  of  our 
national  sins  at  his  door,  and  usually  with  rea 
son.  His  hand  is  hardly  concealed  as  he  thrusts 
it  nervously  through  the  curtains  of  legislative 

173 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

chambers,  state  and  national.  He  invades  city 
halls  and  corrupts  municipal  councils.  Even  the 
fine  arts  are  degraded  for  his  pleasure.  Smith,  it 
seems,  is  too  weary  from  his  day's  work  to  care 
for  dramas 

"That  bear  a  weighty  and  a  serious  brow, 
Sad,  high,  and  working,  full  of  state  and  woe."    ' 

He  is  one  of  the  loyalest  patrons  of  that  type  of 
beguilement  known  as  the  "musical  comedy," 
which  in  its  most  engaging  form  is  a  naughty 
situation  sprinkled  with  cologne  water  and  set 
to  waltz  time.  Still,  if  he  dines  at  the  proper 
hour  at  a  Fifth  Avenue  restaurant  and  eats 
more  and  drinks  more  than  he  should  (to  fur 
ther  the  hardening  of  his  arteries  for  the  Ger 
man  specialist),  he  may  arrive  late  and  still 
hear  the  tune  everyone  on  Broadway  is  whis 
tling.  The  girl  behind  the  book-counter  knows 
Smith  a  mile  off,  and  hands  him  at  once  a  novel 
that  has  a  lot  of  "go"  to  it,  or  one  wherein 
"smart"  people  assembled  in  house-parties  for 
week-ends,  amuse  themselves  by  pinning  pink 
ribbons  on  the  Seventh  Commandment.  If  the 
illustrations  are  tinted  and  the  first  page  opens 

174 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

upon  machine-gun  dialogue,  the  sale  is  effected 
all  the  more  readily.  Or,  reluctant  to  tackle  a 
book  of  any  sort,  he  may  gather  up  a  few  of 
those  magazines  whose  fiction  jubilantly  em 
phasizes  the  least  noble  passions  of  man.  And 
yet  my  Smith  delighted,  in  those  old  days 
around  the  register,  in  Howells's  clean,  firm 
stroke;  and  we  were  always  quoting  dear  Stock 
ton —  "black  stockings  for  sharks"  —  "put 
your  board  money  in  the  ginger  .jar."  What 
a  lot  of  silly,  happy,  comfortable  geese  we 
were! 

It  seems  only  yesterday  that  the  first  trayful 
of  cocktails  jingled  into  a  parlor  in  my  town  as 
a  prelude  to  dinner;  and  I  recall  the  scandalous 
reports  of  that  innovation  which  passed  up  and 
down  the  maple-arched  thoroughfares  that  give 
so  sober  and  cloistral  an  air  to  our  residential 
area.  When  that  first  tray  appeared  at  our 
elbows,  just  before  that  difficult  moment  when 
we  gentlemen  of  the  provinces,  rather  con 
scious  at  all  times  of  our  dress-coats,  are  won 
dering  whether  it  is  the  right  or  left  arm  we 
should  offer  the  lady  we  are  about  to  take  in, 
we  were  startled,  as  though  the  Devil  had  in- 

175 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

vaded  the  domestic  sanctuary  and  perched 
himself  on  the  upright  piano.  Nothing  is  more 
depressing  than  the  thought  that  all  these 
Smiths,  many  of  whose  fathers  slept  in  the 
rain  and  munched  hard-tack  for  a  principle  in 
the  sixties,  are  unable  to  muster  an  honest 
appetite,  but  must  pucker  their  stomachs  with 
a  tonic  before  they  can  swallow  their  daily 
bread.  Perhaps  our  era's  great  historian  will 
be  a  stomach  specialist  whose  pages,  bristling 
with  statistics  and  the  philosophy  thereof,  will 
illustrate  the  undermining  and  honeycombing 
of  our  institutions  by  gin  and  bitters. 

v 

The  most  appalling  thing  about  us  Americans 
is  our  complete  sophistication.  The  English  are 
children.  An  Englishman  is  at  no  moment  so 
delightful  as  when  he  lifts  his  brows  and  says 
"Really!"  The  Frenchman  at  his  sidewalk 
table  watches  the  world  go  by  with  unwearied 
delight.  At  any  moment  Napoleon  may  appear; 
or  he  may  hear  great  news  of  a  new  drama,  or 
the  latest  lion  of  the  salon  may  stroll  by.  Awe 
and  wonder  are  still  possible  in  the  German, 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

bred  as  he  is  upon  sentiment  and  fairy-lore:  the 
Italian  is  beautifully  credulous.  On  my  first 
visit  to  Paris,  having  arrived  at  midnight  and 
been  established  in  a  hotel  room  that  hung 
above  a  courtyard  which  I  felt  confident  had 
witnessed  the  quick  thrusts  of  Porthos,  Athos, 
and  Aramis,  I  wakened  at  an  early  hour  to  the 
voice  of  a  child  singing  in  the  area  below.  It  has 
always  seemed  tome  that  that  artless  song  flung 
out  upon  the  bright  charmed  morning  came 
from  the  very  heart  of  France!  France,  after 
hundreds  of  years  of  achievement,  prodigious 
labor,  and  staggering  defeat,  is  still  a  child 
among  the  nations. 

Only  the  other  day  I  attended  a  prize-fight  in 
Paris.  It  was  a  gay  affair  held  in  a  huge  amphi 
theatre  and  before  a  great  throng  of  spectators 
of  whom  a  third  were  women.  The  match  was 
for  twenty  rounds  between  a  Frenchman  and  an 
Australian  negro.  After  ten  rounds  it  was 
pretty  clear  that  the  negro  was  the  better  man; 
and  my  lay  opinion  was  supported  by  the  judg 
ment  of  two  American  journalists,  sounder 
critics  than  I  profess  to  be  of  the  merits  of  such 
contests.  The  decision  was,  of  course,  in  favor 

177 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

of  the  Frenchman  and  the  cheering  was  vocifer 
ous  and  prolonged.  And  it  struck  me  as  a  fine 
thing  that  that  crowd  could  cheer  so  lustily  the 
wrong  decision!  It  was  that  same  spirit  that 
led  France  forth  jauntily  against  Bismarck's 
bayonets.  I  respect  the  emotion  with  which  a 
Frenchman  assures  me  that  one  day  French 
soldiers  will  plant  the  tri-color  on  the  Branden 
burg  Gate.  He  dreams  of  it  as  a  child  dreams 
of  to-morrow's  games. 

But  we  are  at  once  the  youngest  and  the  old 
est  of  the  nations.  We  are  drawn  to  none  but 
the  "biggest"  shows,  and  hardly  cease  yawning 
long  enough  to  be  thrilled  by  the  consummating 
leap  of  death  across  the  four  rings  where  folly 
has  already  disproved  all  natural  laws.  The  old 
prayer,  "Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to 
night,"  has  vanished  with  the  belief  in  Santa 
Claus.  No  American  really  wants  to  be  a  child 
again.  It  was  with  a  distinct  shock  that  I  heard 
recently  a  child  of  five  telephoning  for  an  auto 
mobile  in  a  town  that  had  been  threatened  by 
hostile  Indians  not  more  than  thirty  years  ago. 
Our  children  avail  themselves  with  the  coolest 
condescension  of  all  the  apparatus  of  our  com- 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

plex  modern  life:  they  are  a  thousand  years  old 
the  day  they  are  born. 

The  farmer  who  once  welcomed  the  lightning- 
rod  salesman  as  a  friend  of  mankind  is  moving 
to  town  now  and  languidly  supervising  the  till 
ing  of  his  acres  from  an  automobile.  One  of  these 
vicarious  husbandmen,  established  in  an  Indi 
ana  county  seat,  found  it  difficult  to  employ  his 
newly  acquired  leisure.  The  automobile  had 
not  proved  itself  a  toy  of  unalloyed  delight,  and 
the  feet  that  had  followed  unwearied  the  hay 
rake  and  plow  faltered  upon  the  treads  of  the 
mechanical  piano.  He  began  to  alternate  motor 
flights  with  more  deliberate  drives  behind  a 
handsome  team  of  blacks.  The  eyes  of  the  town 
undertaker  fell  in  mortal  envy  upon  that  team 
and  he  sought  to  buy  it.  The  tired  husbandman 
felt  that  here,  indeed,  was  an  opportunity  to 
find  light  gentlemanly  occupation,  while  at  the 
same  time  enjoying  the  felicities  of  urban  life,  so 
he  consented  to  the  use  of  his  horses,  but  with 
the  distinct  understanding  that  he  should  be 
permitted  to  drive  the  hearse! 


179 


The  Tired  Business  Man 


VI 

If  we  are  not,  after  all,  a  happy  people,  in  the 
full  enjoyment  of  life  and  liberty,  what  is  this 
sickness  that  troubleth  our  Israel  ?  Why  huddle 
so  many  captains  within  the  walls  of  the  city, 
impotently  whining  beside  their  spears?  Why 
seek  so  many  for  rest  while  this  our  Israel  is 
young  among  the  nations  ?  "  Thou  hast  multi 
plied  the  nation  and  not  increased  the  joy; 
they  joy  before  thee  according  to  the  joy  in 
harvest  and  as  men  rejoice  when  they  divide 
the  spoil."  Weariness  fell  upon  Judah,  and 
despite  the  warnings  of  noble  and  eloquent 
prophets  she  perished.  It  is  now  a  good  many 
years  since  Mr.  Arnold  cited  Isaiah  and  Plato 
for  our  benefit  to  illustrate  his  belief  that  with 
us,  as  with  Judah  and  Athens,  the  majority  are 
unsound.  And  yet  from  his  essay  on  Numbers 
—  an  essay  for  which  Lowell's  "  Democracy  " 
is  an  excellent  antidote  —  we  may  turn  with  a 
feeling  of  confidence  and  security  to  that  un- 
tired  and  unwearying  majority  which  Arnold 
believed  to  be  unsound.  Many  instances  of  the 
soundness  of  our  majority  have  been  afforded 

1 80 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

since  Mr.  Arnold's  death,  and  it  is  a  reason 
able  expectation  that,  in  spite  of  the  apparent 
ease  with  which  the  majority  may  be  stam 
peded,  it  nevertheless  pauses  with  a  safe  mar 
gin  between  it  and  the  precipice.  Illustrations 
of  failure  abound  in  history,  but  the  very  rise 
and  development  of  our  nation  has  discredited 
History  as  a  prophet.  In  the  multiplication  of 
big  and  little  Smiths  lies  our  only  serious  dan 
ger.  The  disposition  of  the  sick  Smiths  to  de 
plore  as  unhealthy  and  unsound  such  a  radical 
movement  as  began  in  1896,  and  still  sweeps 
merrily  on  in  1912,  never  seriously  arrests  the 
onward  march  of  those  who  sincerely  believe 
that  we  were  meant  to  be  a  great  refuge  for 
mankind.  If  I  must  choose,  I  prefer  to  take 
my  chances  with  the  earnest,  healthy,  patri 
otic  millions  rather  than  with  an  oligarchy  of 
tired  Smiths.  Our  impatience  of  the  bounds 
of  law  set  by  men  who  died  before  the  Republic 
was  born  does  not  justify  the  whimpering  of 
those  Smiths  who  wrap  themselves  in  the  grave- 
clothes  of  old  precedents,  and  who  love  the 
Constitution  only  when  they  fly  to  it  for 
shelter.  Tired  business  men,  weary  professional 

181 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

men,  bored  farmers,  timorous  statesmen  are 
not  of  the  vigorous  stuff  of  those 

"Who  founded  us  and  spread  from  sea  to  sea 

A  thousand  leagues  the  zone  of  liberty, 
And  gave  to  man  this  refuge  from  his  past, 
Unkinged,  unchurched,  unsoldiered." 

Our  country's  only  enemies  are  the  sick  men, 
the  tired  men,  who  have  exhausted  themselves 
in  the  vain  pursuit  of  vain  things;  who  forget 
that  democracy  like  Christianity  is  essentially 
social,  and  who  constitute  a  sick  remnant  from 
whom  it  is  devoutly  to  be  hoped  the  benign 
powers  may  forever  protect  us. 

VII 

It  was  a  year  ago  that  I  met  my  old  friend 
Smith,  irritable,  depressed,  anxious,  in  the  Ger 
man  capital.  This  morning  we  tramped  five 
miles,  here  among  the  Vermont  hills  where  he 
has  established  himself.  Sound  in  wind  and 
limb  is  my  old  neighbor,  and  his  outlook  on  life 
is  sane  and  reasonable.  I  have  even  heard  him 
referring,  with  something  of  his  old  emotion,  to 
that  dark  winter  at  Valley  Forge,  but  with  a 
new  hopefulness,  a  wider  vision.  He  does  not 

182 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

think  the  American  Republic  will  perish,  even 
as  Nineveh  and  Tyre,  any  more  than  I  do.  He 
has  come  to  a  realization  of  his  own  errors  and 
he  is  interested  in  the  contemplation  of  his  own 
responsibilities.  And  it  is  not  the  German  spe 
cialist  he  has  to  thank  for  curing  his  weariness 
half  so  much  as  Fanny. 

Fanny!  Fanny  is  the  wisest,  the  most  cap 
able,  the  healthiest-minded  girl  in  the  world. 
Fanny  is  adorable!  As  we  trudged  along  the 
road,  Smith  suddenly  paused  and  lifted  his  eyes 
to  a  rough  pasture  slightly  above  and  beyond 
us.  I  knew  from  the  sudden  light  in  his  face 
that  Fanny  was  in  the  landscape.  She  leaped 
upon  a  wall  and  waved  to  us.  A  cool  breeze  rose 
from  the  valley  and  swept  round  her.  As  she 
poised  for  a  moment  before  running  down  to 
join  us  in  the  road,  there  was  about  her  some 
thing  of  the  grace  and  vigor  of  the  Winged  Vic 
tory  as  it  challenges  the  eye  at  the  head  of  the 
staircase  in  the  Louvre.  She  lifted  her  hand  to 
brush  back  her  hair,  —  that  golden  crown  so 
loved  by  light!  And  as  she  ran  we  knew  she 
would  neither  stumble  nor  fall  on  that  rock- 
strewn  pasture.  When  she  reached  the  brook 

183 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

she  took  it  at  a  bound,  and  burst  upon  us 
radiant. 

It  had  been  Fanny's  idea  to  come  here,  and 
poor,  tired,  broken,  disconsolate  Smith,  driven 
desperate  by  the  restrictions  imposed  upon  him 
by  the  German  doctors,  and  only  harassed  by 
his  wife's  fears,  had  yielded  to  Fanny's  impor 
tunities.  I  had  been  so  drawn  into  their  affairs 
that  I  knew  all  the  steps  by  which  Fanny  had 
effected  his  redemption.  She  had  broken 
through  the  lines  of  the  Philistines  and  brought 
him  a  cup  of  water  from  that  unquenchable  well 
by  the  gate  for  which  David  pined  and  for 
which  we  all  long  when  the  evil  days  come.  The 
youth  of  a  world  that  never  grows  old  is  in 
Fanny's  heart.  She  is  to  Smith  as  a  Goddess  of 
Liberty  in  short  skirt  and  sweater,  come  down 
from  her  pedestal  to  lead  the  way  to  green  pas 
tures  beside  waters  of  comfort.  She  has  become 
to  him  not  merely  the  spirit  of  youth  but  of  life, 
and  his  dependence  upon  her  is  complete.  It 
was  she  who  saved  him  from  himself  when  to 
his  tired  eyes  it  seemed  that 

"All  one's  work  is  vain, 
'  And  life  goes  stretching  on,  a  waste  gray  plain, 


The  Tired  Business  Man 

With  even  the  short  mirage  of  morning  gone, 
No  cool  breath  anywhere,  no  shadow  nigh 
Where  a  weary  man  might  lay  him  down  and  die." 

Later,  as  we  sat  on  Smith's  veranda  watching 
the  silver  trumpet  of  the  young  moon  be 
yond  the  pine-crowned  crest,  with  the  herd  a 
dark  blur  in  the  intervening  meadows,  and 
sweet  clean  airs  blowing  out  of  the  valley,  it 
somehow  occurred  to  me  that  Fanny  of  the 
adorable  head,  Fanny  gentle  of  heart,  quick 
of  wit,  and  ready  of  hand,  is  the  fine  essence 
of  all  that  is  worthiest  and  noblest  in  this 
America  of  ours.  In  such  as  she  there  is  both 
inspiration  to  do  and  the  wisdom  of  peace  and 
rest.  As  she  sits  brooding  with  calm  brows,  a 
quiet  hand  against  her  tanned  cheek,  I  see  in 
her  the  likeness  of  a  goddess  sprung  of  loftier 
lineage  than  Olympus  knew,  for  in  her  abides 
the  spirit  of  that  old  and  new  America  that 
labors  in  the  sun  and  whose  faith  is  in  the  stars. 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief: 
A  Dialogue 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief: 
A  Dialogue 

If  I  could  find  a  higher  tree 
Farther  and  farther  I  should  see, 
To  where  the  grown-up  river  slips 
'  Into  the  sea  among  the  ships. 

To  where  the  roads  on  either  hand 
Lead  onward  into  fairyland, 
Where  all  the  children  dine  at  five, 
And  all  the  playthings  come  alive. 

R.  L.  S. 

JESSAMINE  and  I  had  been  out  sailing.  We 
came  back  to  find  the  house  deserted, 
and  after  foraging  in  the  pantry,  we  made 
ourselves  at  home  in  the  long  unceiled  living- 
room,  which  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  lounging- 
places  in  the  world.  A  few  pine-knots  were 
smouldering  ^in  the  fireplace,  and,  as  I  have 
reached  an  age  when  it  is  pleasant  to  watch 
the  flames,  I  poked  a  little  life  into  the  embers 
and  sat  down  to  contemplate  thenTfrom  the 
easiest  chair  the  camp  afforded.  Jessamine 

189 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

wearily  cast  herself  upon  the  couch  near  by 
without  taking  off  her  coat. 

Jessamine  is  five  and  does  as  she  likes,  and 
does  it  perversely,  arbitrarily,  and  gracefully, 
in  the  way  of  maids  of  five.  In  the  pantry  she 
had  found  her  way  to  marmalade  with  an  ease 
and  certainty  that  amazed  me;  and  she  had, 
with  malice  aforethought,  made  me  particeps 
criminis  by  teaching  me  how  to  coax  reluctant, 
tight-fitting  olives  from  an  impossible  bottle 
with  an  oyster-fork. 

Jessamine  is  difficult.  I  thought  of  it  now 
with  a  pang,  as  her  brown  curls  lay  soft  against 
a  red  cushion  and  she  crunched  a  biscuit,  heav 
ily  stuccoed  with  marmalade,  with  her  little 
popcorn  teeth.  I  have  wooed  her  with  bonbons ; 
I  have  bribed  her  with  pennies ;  but  indifference 
and  disdain  are  still  my  portion.  Today  was 
my  opportunity.  The  rest  of  the  household  had 
gone  to  explore  the  village  bazaars,  and  we  were 
left  alone.  It  was  not  that  she  loved  me  more, 
but  the  new  nurse  less ;  and,  as  sailing  had  usu 
ally  been  denied  her,  she  derived  from  our  few 
hours  in  my  catboat  the  joy  of  a  clandestine 
adventure.  We  had  never  been  so  much  to- 
190 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

gether  before.  I  wondered  how  long  the  spell  of 
our  sail  would  last.  Probably,  I  reflected,  until 
the  wanderers  came  back  from  town  to  afford  a 
new  diversion;  or  until  her  nurse  came  to  carry 
her  away  to  tea.  For  the  moment,  however,  I 
felt  secure.  The  fire  snapped;  the  clock  ticked 
insistently;  my  face  burned  from  its  recent 
contact  with  a  sharp  west  wind,  which  had 
brought  white  caps  to  the  surface  of  the  lake 
and  a  pleasant  splash  to  the  beach  at  our  front 
door.  Jessamine  folded  her  arms,  rested  her 
head  upon  them,  and  regarded  me  lazily.  She 
was  slim  and  lean  of  limb,  and  the  lines  she 
made  on  the  couch  were  long.  I  tried  to  re 
member  whether  I  had  ever  seen  her  still  before. 
^"You  may  read,  if  you  like,"  she  said. 

"Thank  you ;  but  I  'd  rather  have  you  tell  me 
things,"  I  answered. 

I  wished  to  be  conciliatory.  At  any  moment, 
I  knew  she  might  rise  and  vanish.  My  tricks  of 
detention  had  proved  futile  a  thousand  times;  I 
was  always  losing  her.  She  was  a  master  oppor 
tunist.  She  had,  I  calculated,  a  mood  a  minute, 
and  the  mood  of  inaction  was  not  often  one  of 
them. 

191 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

"There  are  many,  many  things  I'd  like  to 
have  you  tell  me,  Mischief,"  I  said.  "What 
do  you  think  of  when  you're  all  alone;  what  do 
you  think  of  me?" 

"Oh!  I  never  think  of  you  when  I'm  all 
alone." 

"Thank  you,  Mischief.  But  I  wonder 
whether  you  are  quite  frank.  You  must  think  of 
me  sometimes.  For  example,  —  where  were 
you  when  you  thought  of  knotting  my  neckties 
all  together,  no  longer  ago  than  yesterday?" 

"Oh ! "  (It  is  thus  she  begins  many  sentences. 
Her  "Ohs"  are  delightfully  equivocal.) 

"Perhaps  you'd  rather  not  tell.  Of  course, 
I  don't  mind  about  the  ties." 

"  It  was  nice  of  you  —  not  to  mind." 

Suddenly  her  blue  eyes  ceased  to  be.  They 
are  little  pools  of  blue,  like  mountain  lakes.  I 
was  aware  that  the  dark  lashes  had  stolen  down 
upon  her  brown  cheek.  She  opened  her  eyes 
again  instantly. 

"I  wish  I  had  n't  found  your  ties.  Finding 
them  made  a  lot  of  trouble  for  me.  I  was  look 
ing  for  your  funny  little  scissors  to  open  the 
door  of  my  doll-house  that  was  stuck,  and  I  saw 
192 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

the  ties.  Then  I  remembered  that  I  needed  a 
rope  to  tie  Adolphus  —  that's  the  woolly  dog 
you  bought  for  my  birthday  —  to  my  bed  at 
night;  and  neckties  make  very  good  ropes." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  Mischief." 

"There's  a  prayer  they  say  in  church  about 
mischief  —  "  she  began  sleepily. 

"'From  all  evil  and  mischief;  from  sin;  from 
the  crafts  and  assaults  of  the  Devil  ? ' "  I  quoted. 

"That  is  it!  and  there's  something  in  it,  too, 
about  everlasting  damnation,  that  always  sends 
shivers  down  my  back." 

She  frowned  in  a  puzzled  way.  I  remembered 
that  once,  when  Jessamine  and  I  went  to  church 
together,  she  had,  during  the  reading  of  the 
litany,  so  moved  a  silk  hat  on  the  next  seat  that 
its  owner  crushed  it  hideously  when  he  rose 
from  his  knees. 

The  black  lashes  hid  the  blue  eyes  once  more, 
and  she  settled  her  head  snugly  into  her  folded 
arms. 

"Why,"  she  murmured,  "do  you  call  me 
Mischief?  I'm  not  Mischief;  I'm  Jessamine." 

"You  are  the  Spirit  of  Mischief ,"  I  answered; 
and  she  made  no  reply. 
.193 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

The  water  of  the  lake  beat  the  shore  stormily. 

"The  Spirit  of  Mischief." 

Jessamine  repeated  the  words  sleepily.  I  had 
never  thought  of  them  seriously  before,  and  had 
applied  them  to  her  thoughtlessly.  Is  there,  I 
asked  myself,  a  whimsical  spirit  that  possesses 
the  heart  of  a  child,  —  something  that  is  too 
swift  for  the  slow  pace  of  adult  minds;  and  if 
there  be  such,  where  is  its  abiding-place? 

"I'm  the  Spirit  of  Mischief!" 

There,  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  stood  Jes 
samine,  but  with  a  difference.  Her  fists  were 
thrust  deep  down  into  the  pockets  of  her  coat. 
There  was  a  smile  on  her  face  that  I  did  not 
remember  to  have  seen  before.  The  wind  had 
blown  her  hair  into  a  sorry  tangle,  and  it  was 
my  fault  —  I  should  have  made  her  wear  her 
tam-o'-shanter  in  the  catboat!  An  uncle  may 
mean  well,  but,  after  all,  he  is  no  fit  substitute 
for  a  parent. 

"  So  you  admit  it,  do  you  ?  It  is  unlike  you  to 
make  concessions." 

"You  use  long  words.  Uncles  always  use  long 
words.  It  is  one  of  the  most  foolish  things  they 
do." 

194 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

"I'm  sorry.  I  wish  very  much  not  to  be 
foolish  or  naughty." 

"I  have  wished  that  many  times,"  she  re 
turned  gravely.  "But  naughtiness  and  mis 
chief  are  not  the  same  thing." 

"I  believe  that  is  so,"  I  answered.  "But  if 
you  are  really  the  Spirit  of  Mischief,  —  and  far 
be  it  from  me  to  doubt  your  word,  —  where  is 
your  abiding-place?  Spirits  must  have  abiding- 
places." 

"There  are  many  of  them,  and  they  area  long 
way  off.  One  is  where  the  four  winds  meet." 

"But  that  —  that  isn't  telling.  Nobody 
knows  where  that  is." 

"Everybody  doesn't,"  said  the  Spirit  of 
Mischief  gently,  as  one  who  would  deal  for- 
bearingly  with  dullness. 

"Tell  me  something  easier,"  I  begged. 

"Well,  I  '11  try  again,"  she  said.  "  Sometimes 
when  I  'm  not  where  four  winds  meet,  I  'm  at 
the  end  of  all  the  rainbows.  Do  you  know  that 
place?" 

"I  never  heard  of  it.   Is  it  very  far  away?" 

"It's  farther  than  anything  —  farther  even 
than  the  place  where  the  winds  meet." 

195 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

"And  what  do  you  do  there?  You  must  have 
bags  and  bags  of  gold,  O  Spirit." 

"Yes.  Of  course.  I  practice  hiding  things 
with  them.  That  is  why  no  one  ever  found  a 
bag  of  gold  at  the  end  of  a  rainbow.  I  have  put 
countless  ones  in  the  cave  of  lost  treasure. 
There  are  a  great  many  things  there  besides 
the  bags  of  gold,  —  things  that  parents,  and 
uncles,  and  aunts  lose,  —  and  never  find  any 


more." 


"I  wish  I  could  visit  the  place,"  I  said  with  a 
sigh.  "It  would  be  pleasant  to  see  a  storehouse 
like  that.  It  would  have,  I  may  say,  a  strong 
personal  interest.  Only  yesterday  I  contributed 
a  valued  scarf-pin  through  the  agency  of  a 
certain  mischievous  niece;  and  I  shall  be  long 
in  recovering  from  the  loss  of  that  miraculous 
putter  that  made  me  a  terror  on  the  links.  My 
golf  can  never  be  the  same  again." 

"But  you  never  can  see  the  place,"  she  de 
clared.  "A  time  comes  when  you  can't  find  it 
any  more,  the  cave  of  lost  treasure  —  or  the 
place  where  four  winds  meet  —  or  the  end  of  all 
the  rainbows." 

"I  suppose  I  have  lost  my  chance,"  I  said. 
196 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

"Oh,  long  ago!"  exclaimed  the  Spirit  dis 
dainfully.  "It  never  lasts  beyond  six!" 

"That  has  a  wise  sound.  Pray  tell  me  more! 
Tell  me,  I  beg,  how  you  have  endured  this 
harsh  world  so  long." 

This,  I  thought,  was  a  poser;  but  she  an 
swered  readily  enough. 

"  I  suppose,  because  I  am  kindred  of  so  many, 
many  things  that  live  on  forever.  There  are  the 
colors  on  water  when  the  sun  strikes  it  through 
clouds.  It  can  be  green  and  gold  and  blue  and 
silver  all  at  once;  and  then  there  is  the  foam  of 
the  white  caps.  It  is  foam  for  a  moment  and 
then  it  is  just  water  again.  And  there  is  the 
moonlight  on  rippling  water,  that  goes  away 
and  never  comes  any  more  —  not  just  the  same. 
The  mirth  in  the  heart  of  a  child  is  like  all  these 
things;  and  the  heart  of  a  child  is  the  place  I 
love  best." 

"Yes,"  I  said.  " I  'm  sure  it  is  better  than  the 
place  where  all  the  winds  meet,  or  that  other 
rainbow-place  that  you  told  me  about." 

"And  then,"  she  began  again,  "you  know 
that  children  say  things  sometimes  just  in  fun, 
but  no  one  ever  seems  to  understand  that." 

197 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

"To  be  sure,"  I  said  feelingly,  remembering 
how  Jessamine  loved  to  tease  and  plague 
me. 

"But  there  is  n't  any  harm  in  it  —  any  more 
than—" 

"Yes  ? "  a  little  impatiently. 

"Than  in  the  things  the  pines  say  when  the 
wind  runs  over  the  top  of  them.  They  are  not 
—  not  important,  exactly,  —  but  they  are  al 
ways  different.  That  is  the  best  thing  about 
being  a  child  —  the  being  different  part.  You 
have  a  grown-up  word  that  means  always  just 
the  same." 

"Consistent?"  I  asked. 

"That  is  it.  A  child  that  is  consistent  is 
wrong  some  way.  But  I  don't  remember  having 
seen  any  of  that  kind." 

A  smile  that  was  not  the  smile  of  Jessamine 
stole  into  the  Spirit's  face.  It  disconcerted  me. 
I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  decide  how  much 
of  the  figure  before  me  was  Jessamine  and  how 
much  was  really  the  Spirit  of  Mischief,  or 
whether  they  were  both  the  same. 

"Being  ignorant,  you  don't  know  what  the 
mirth  in  a  child  is  —  you"  (scornfully)  "who 

198 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

pretend  to  measure  all  people  by  their  sense  of 
humor.  It's  akin  to  the  bubbling  music  of  the 
fountain  of  youth,  and  you  do  the  child  and  the 
world  a  wrong  when  you  stifle  it.  A  child's  glee 
is  as  natural  as  sunshine,  and  carries  no  burden 
of  knowledge;  and  that  is  the  precious  thing 
about  it." 

"I'm  sure  that  is  true,"  I  said;  but  the  Spirit 
did  not  heed  me.  She  went  on,  in  a  voice  that 
suggested  Jessamine,  but  was  not  hers. 

"Many  people  talk  solemnly  about  the  imagi 
nation  of  children,  as  though  it  were  a  thing 
that  could  be  taught  from  books  or  prepared  in 
laboratories.  But  children's  mischief,  that  is  so 
often  complained  of,  is  the  imaginations'  finest 
flower." 

"The  idea  pleases  me.  I  shall  make  a  note 
of  it." 

"The  very  day,"  continued  the  Spirit,  "that 
you  sat  at  table  and  talked  learnedly  about  the 
minds  of  children  and  how  to  promote  in  them 
a  love  of  the  beautiful,  your  Jessamine  had 
known  a  moment  of  joy.  She  had  lain  in  the 
meadow  and  watched  the  thistledown  take 
flight,  —  a  myriad  of  those  flimsy  argosies. 
199 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

And  she  had  fashioned  a  story  about  them,  that 
they  rise  skyward  to  become  the  stuff  that 
white  clouds  are  made  of.  And  the  same  day 
she  asked  you  to  tell  her  what  it  is  the  robins 
are  so  sorry  about  when  they  sing  in  the  evening 
after  the  other  birds  have  gone.  Now  the  same 
small  head  that  thought  of  those  things  con 
trived  also  the  happy  idea  of  cooking  a  doll's 
dinner  in  the  chafing  dish,  —  an  experiment 
that  resulted,  as  you  may  remember,  in  a  visit 
from  both  the  doctor  and  the  fire-insurance 
adjuster." 

My  heart  was  wrung  as  I  recalled  the  band 
ages  on  Jessamine's  slender  brown  arms. 

"Yes,  O  Spirit!"  I  said.  "I'm  learning 
much.  Pray  tell  me  more!" 

"We  like  very  much  for  science  to  let  us 
alone—" 

"But  hygiene  —  and  all  those  life-saving 
things—" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  patronizingly;  "they're 
all  very  well  in  their  way.  It's  better  for  science 
to  kill  bugs  than  for  the  bugs  to  kill  children. 
But  I  mean  other  kinds  of  sciences  that  are  not 
nearly  so  useful  —  pedagogical  and  the  like, 
200 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

that  are  trying  to  kill  the  microbe  of  play. 
Leave  us,  oh,  leave  us  that!" 

"That  is  a  new  way  of  putting  it.  We  old 
sters  soon  forget  how  to  play,  alackaday!" 

She  went  on  calmly.  "Work  that  you  really 
love  is  n't  work  any  more  —  it's  play." 

"That's  a  little  deep  for  me—" 

"It's  true,  though,  so  you'd  better  try  to 
understand.  If  you  paint  a  picture  and  work  at 
it,  —  slave  over  it  and  are  not  happy  doing  it, 
—  then  your  picture  is  only  so  many  pennies' 
worth  of  paint.  The  cruelest  thing  people  can 
say  of  a  book  or  a  picture  is,  '  Well,  he  worked 
hard  at  it!'  The  spirit  of  mischief  is  only  the 
spirit  of  play;  and  the  spirit  of  play  is  really  the 
spirit  of  the  work  we  love." 

"  It's  too  bad  that  you  are  not  always  patient 
with  us,"  the  Spirit  continued.  (I  note4  the 
plural.  Clearly  Jessamine  and  the  Spirit  were 
one!) 

"I'm  sorry,  too,"  I  answered  contritely. 

"The  laws  of  the  foolish  world  do  not  apply 

to  childhood  at  all.    Children  are  born  into  a 

condition  of  ideality.    They  view  everything 

with  wonder  and  awe,  and  you  and  all  the  rest 

20 1 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

of  the  grown-up  world  are  busy  spoiling  their 
illusions.  How  happy  you  would  be  if  you  could 
have  gone  on  blowing  bubbles  all  your  days ! " 

"True,  alas,  too  true!" 

The  face  of  the  Spirit  grew  suddenly  very  old. 

"Life,"  she  said,  "consists  largely  in  having 
to  accept  the  fact  that  we  cannot  do  the  things 
we  want  to  do.  But  in  the  blessed  days  of  mis 
chief  we  blow  bubbles  in  forbidden  soap  and 
water  with  contraband  pipes  —  and  do  not 
know  that  they  are  bubbles!" 

"That  is  the  fine  thing  about  it,  O  Spirit  — 
the  sweet  ignorance  of  it!  I  hope  I  understand 
that." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  really  wiser  than  you  have 
always  seemed,"  she  said,  with  her  baffling 
smile.  "Mischief,  as  you  are  prone  to  call  so 
many  things  that  children  do,  is  as  wholesome 
and  sweet  as  a  field  of  clover.  I,  the  Spirit  of 
Mischief,  have  a  serious  business  in  the  world, 
which  I'll  tell  you  about,  as  you  are  old  and 
know  so  little.  I  'm  here  to  combat  and  confuse 
the  evil  spirits  that  seek  to  stifle  the  good  cheer 
of  childhood.  These  little  children  that  always 
go  to  bed  without  a  fuss  and  say  good  night 

202 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

very  sweetly  in  French,  and  never  know  bread 
and  butter  and  jam  by  their  real  names  —  you 
really  do  not  like  them  half  as  well  as  you  like 
natural  children.  You  remember  that  you 
laughed  when  Jessamine's  French  governess 
came,  and  left  the  second  day  because  the  black 
cat  got  into  her  trunk.  There  was  really  no 
harm  in  that!" 

The  Spirit  of  Mischief  laughed.  She  grew 
very  small,  and  I  watched  her  curiously,  won 
dering  whether  she  was  really  a  creature  of  this 
work-a-day  world.  Then  suddenly  she  grew  to 
life-size  again,  and  laughed  gleefully,  standing 
with  her  hands  thrust  deep  into  her  coat  pockets. 

"Jessamine!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  thought  you 
were  asleep." 

"I  was,  a  little  bit;  but  you  —  you  snored 
awfully,"  she  said,  "and  waked  me  up." 

She  still  watched  me,  laughing;  and  looking 
down  I  saw  that  she  had  been  busy  while  I 
slept.  A  barricade  of  books  had  been  built 
around  me,  —  a  carefully  wrought  bit  of  ma 
sonry,  as  high  as  my  knees. 

"You're  the  wicked  giant,"  declared  Jes 
samine,  quite  in  her  own  manner,  and  with  no 
203 


The  Spirit  of  Mischief 

hint  of  the  half-real,  elfish  spirit  of  my  dream. 
"And  I'm  the  good  little  Princess  that  has 
caught  you  at  last.  And  I  '11  never  let  you  out 
of  the  tower  —  Oh  they  're  coming!  They  're 
coming!" 

She  flashed  to  the  door  and  out  upon  the 
veranda  where  steps  had  sounded,  leaving  me 
to  deliver  myself  from  the  tower  of  the  Spirit 
of  Mischief  with  the  ignorant  hands  of  Age. 


Confessions  of  a  "Best-Seller 


Confessions  of  a  "Best- 
Seller" 

THAT  my  name  has  adorned  best-selling 
lists  is  more  of  a  joke  than  my  harshest 
critics  can  imagine.  I  had  dallied  awhile  at  the 
law;  I  had  given  ten  full  years  to  journalism; 
I  had  written  criticism,  and  not  a  little  verse; 
two  or  three  short  stories  of  the  slightest  had 
been  my  only  adventure  in  fiction;  and  I  had 
spent  a  year  writing  an  essay  in  history,  which, 
from  the  publisher's  reports,  no  one  but  my 
neighbor  and  my  neighbor's  wife  ever  read.  My 
frugal  output  of  poems  had  pleased  no  one  half 
so  much  as  myself;  and  having  reached  years  of 
discretion  I  carefully  analyzed  samples  of  the 
ore  that  remained  in  my  bins,  decided  that  I 
had  exhausted  my  poetical  vein,  and  thereupon 
turned  rather  soberly  to  the  field  of  fiction. 

In  order  to  qualify  myself  to  speak  to  my 
text,  I  will  say  that  in  a  period  of  six  years,  that 
closed  in  January,  1909,  my  titles  were  included 
207 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

fifteen  times  in  the  "Bookman"  list  of  best- 
selling  books.  Two  of  my  titles  appeared  five 
times  each;  one  of  them  headed  the  list  three 
months  successively.  I  do  not  presume  to  speak 
for  others  with  whom  I  have  crossed  swords  in 
the  best-selling  lists,  but  I  beg  to  express  my 
strong  conviction  that  the  compilation  of  such 
statistics  is  quite  as  injurious  as  it  is  helpful  to 
authors.  When  the  "six  best-selling"  phrase 
was  new  the  monthly  statement  of  winners 
may  have  carried  som$  weight;  but  for  several 
years  it  has  really  had  little  significance.  Criti 
cal  purchasers  are  likely  to  be  wary  of  books 
so  listed.  It  is  my  impression,  based  on  talks 
with  retail  dealers  in  many  parts  of  the  coun 
try,  that  they  often  report  as  "best-sellers" 
books  of  which  they  may  have  made  large  ad 
vance  purchases,  but  which  are  selling  slowly. 
Their  aim  is,  of  course,  to  force  the  book  into 
the  list,  and  thereby  create  a  false  impression 
of  its  popularity. 

I  think  that  most  publishers,  and  many 

authors  who,  like  myself,  have  profited  by  the 

making  of  these  lists,  would  gladly  see  them 

discontinued.  The  fact  remains,  however,  that 

208 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

the  best  novels  by  the  best  English  and  Ameri 
can  writers  have  generally  been  included  in 
these  lists.  Mrs.  Wharton,  Mrs.  Ward,  Mr. 
Winston  Churchill,  Mr.  Wister,  "Kate  Douglas 
Wiggin,"  Miss  Johnston,  and  Mr.  William  de 
Morgan  have,  for  example,  shared  with  in 
ferior  writers  the  ignominy  of  popular  success. 
I  do  not  believe  that  my  American  fellow  citi 
zens  prefer  trash  to  sound  literature.  There  are 
not  enough  novels  of  the  first  order,  not  enough 
books  of  the  style  and  solidity  of  "The  House 
of  Mirth"  and  "Joseph  Vance,"  to  satisfy  the 
popular  demand  for  fiction;  and  while  the  peo 
ple  wait,  they  take  inferior  books,  like  several 
bearing  my  own  name,  which  have  no  aim  but 
to  amuse.  I  know  of  nothing  more  encouraging 
to  those  who  wish  to  see  the  American  novel  go 
high  and  far  than  the  immediate  acceptance 
among  us  of  the  writings  of  Mr.  William  de 
Morgan,  who  makes  no  concession,  not  even  of 
brevity,  to  the  ever-increasing  demand  for 
fiction. 

I  spent  the  greater  part  of  two  years  on  my 
first  novel,  which  dealt  with  aspects  of  life  in  an 
urban  community  which  interested  me;  and  the 
209 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

gravest  fault  of  the  book,  if  I  am  entitled  to  an 
opinion,  is  its  self-consciousness,  —  I  was  too 
anxious,  too  painstaking,  with  the  result  that 
those  pages  seem  frightfully  stiff  to  me  now. 
The  book  was  launched  auspiciously;  my  pub 
lisher  advertised  it  generously,  and  it  landed 
safely  among  the  "six  best-sellers."  The  critical 
reception  of  the  book  was  cordial  and  friendly, 
not  only  in  the  newspaper  press,  but  in  the 
more  cautious  weekly  journals.  My  severest 
critic  dealt  far  more  amiably  with  my  book  than 
I  should  have  done  myself,  if  I  had  sat  in  judg 
ment  upon  it.  I  have  been  surprised  to  find  the 
book  still  remembered,  and  its  quality  has  been 
flung  in  my  face  by  critics  who  have  deplored 
my  later  performances. 

I  now  wrote  another  novel,  to  which  I  gave 
even  greater  care,  and  into  it  I  put,  I  think, 
the  best  characterizations  I  have  ever  done; 
but  the  soupqon  of  melodrama  with  which  I 
flavored  the  first  novel  was  lacking  in  the  se 
cond,  and  it  went  dead  a  little  short  of  fifteen 
thousand  —  the  poorest  sale  any  of  my  books 
has  had. 

A  number  of  my  friends  were,  at  this  time, 
210 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

rather  annoyingly  directing  my  attention  to  the 
great  popular  successes  of  several  other  Ameri 
can  writers,  whose  tales  were,  I  felt,  the  most 
contemptible  pastiche,  without  the  slightest 
pretense  to  originality,  and  having  neither  form 
nor  style.  It  was  in  some  bitterness  of  spirit 
that  I  resolved  to  try  my  hand  at  a  story  that 
should  be  a  story  and  nothing  else.  Nor  should 
I  storm  the  capitals  of  imaginary  kingdoms,  but 
set  the  scene  on  my  own  soil.  Most,  it  was  clear, 
could  grow  the  flowers  of  Zenda  when  once  the 
seed  had  been  scattered  by  Mr.  Hawkins. 
Whether  Mr.  Hawkins  got  his  inspiration  from 
the  flora  of  Prince  Otto's  gardens,  and  whether 
the  Prince  was  indebted  in  his  turn  to  Harry 
Richmond,  is  not  my  affair.  I  am,  no  doubt, 
indebted  to  all  three  of  these  creations;  but 
I  set  my  scene  in  an  American  commonwealth, 
a  spot  that  derived  nothing  from  historical  as 
sociation,  and  sent  my  hero  on  his  adventures 
armed  with  nothing  more  deadly  than  a  suit 
case  and  an  umbrella.  The  idea  is  not  original 
with  me  that  you  can  make  anything  interest 
ing  if  you  know  how.  It  was  Stevenson,  I  be 
lieve,  who  said  that  a  kitchen  table  is  a  fair 

211 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

enough  subject  for  any  writer  who  knows  his 
trade.  I  do  not  cite  myself  as  a  person  capable 
of  proving  this ;  but  I  am  satisfied  that  the  chief 
fun  of  story-telling  lies  in  trying,  by  all  the 
means  in  a  writer's  power,  to  make  plausible  the 
seemingly  impossible.  And  here,  of  course,  I 
am  referring  to  the  story  for  the  story's  sake,  — 
not  to  the  novel  of  life  and  manners. 

My  two  earliest  books  were  clearly  too  de 
liberate.  They  were  deficient  in  incident,  and 
I  was  prone  to  wander  into  blind  alleys,  and  not 
always  ingenious  enough  to  emerge  again  upon 
the  main  thoroughfare.  I  felt  that,  while  I 
might  fail  in  my  attempt  to  produce  a  romantic 
yarn,  the  experience  might  help  me  to  a  better 
understanding  of  the  mechanics  of  the  novel,  — 
that  I  might  gain  directness,  movement,  and 
ease. 

For  my  third  venture  I  hit  upon  a  device 
that  took  strong  hold  upon  my  imagination. 
The  idea  of  laying  a  trap  for  the  reader  tickled 
me;  and  when  once  I  had  written  the  first  chap 
ter  and  outlined  the  last,  I  yielded  myself  to  the 
story  and  bade  it  run  its  own  course.  I  was 
never  more  honestly  astonished  in  my  life  than 

212 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

to  find  my  half-dozen  characters  taking  matters 
into  their  own  hands,  and  leaving  me  the  merest 
spectator  and  reporter.  I  had  made  notes  for 
the  story,  but  in  looking  them  over  to-day,  I 
find  that  I  made  practically  no  use  of  them.  I 
never  expect  to  experience  again  the  delight  of 
the  winter  I  spent  over  that  tale.  The  sight  of 
white  paper  had  no  terrors  for  me.  The  hero, 
constantly  cornered,  had  always  in  his  pocket 
the  key  to  his  successive  dilemmas;  the  heroine, 
misunderstood  and  misjudged,  was  struck  at 
proper  intervals  by  the  spot-light  that  revealed 
her  charm  and  reestablished  faith  in  her  honor 
able  motives.  No  other  girl  in  my  little  gallery 
of  heroines  exerts  upon  me  the  spell  of  that 
young  lady,  who,  on  the  day  I  began  the  story, 
as  I  waited  for  the  ink  to  thaw  in  my  workshop, 
passed  under  my  window,  by  one  of  those 
kindly  orderings  of  Providence  that  keep  alive 
the  superstition  of  inspiration  in  the  hearts 
of  all  fiction-writers.  She  never  came  my  way 
again  —  but  she  need  not!  She  was  the  bright 
particular  star  of  my  stage  —  its  dea  ex  ma- 
china.  She  is  of  the  sisterhood  of  radiant  god 
desses  who  are  visible  from  any  window,  even 

213 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

though  its  prospect  be  only  a  commonplace  city 
street.  Always,  and  everywhere,  the  essential 
woman  for  any  tale  is  passing  by  with  grave 
mien,  if  the  tale  be  sober;  with  upturned  chin 
and  a  saucy  twinkle  in  the  eye,  if  such  be  the 
seeker's  need! 

I  think  I  must  have  begun  every  morning's 
work  with  a  grin  on  my  face,  for  it  was  all  fun, 
and  I  entered  with  zest  into  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  the  story.  I  was  embarrassed,  not 
by  any  paucity  of  incident,  but  by  my  own 
fecundity  and  dexterity.  The  audacity  of  my 
project  used  sometimes  to  give  me  pause;  it  was 
almost  too  bold  a  thing  to  carry  through;  but 
my  curiosity  as  to  just  how  the  ultimate  goal 
would  be  reached  kept  my  interest  keyed  high. 
At  times,  feeling  that  I  was  going  too  fast,  I 
used  to  halt  and  write  a  purple  patch  or  two 
for  my  own  satisfaction,  —  a  harmless  diver 
sion  to  which  I  am  prone,  and  which  no  one 
could  be  cruel  enough  to  deny  me.  There  are 
pages  in  that  book  over  which  I  dallied  for  a 
week,  and  in  looking  at  them  now  I  find  that 
I  still  think  them —  as  Mr.  James  would  say  - 
" rather  nice."  And  once,  while  thus  amusing 
214 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

myself,  a  phrase  slipped  from  the  pen  which 
I  saw  at  once  had  been,  from  all  time,  ordained 
to  be  the  title  of  my  book. 

When  I  had  completed  the  first  draft,  I  began 
retouching.  I  liked  my  tale  so  much  that  I  was 
reluctant  to  part  with  it;  I  enjoyed  playing 
with  it,  and  I  think  I  rewrote  the  most  of  it 
three  times.  Contumelious  critics  have  spoken 
of  me  as  one  of  the  typewriter  school  of  fiction- 
ists,  picturing  me  as  lightly  flinging  off  a  few 
chapters  before  breakfast,  and  spending  the 
rest  of  the  day  on  the  golf-links;  but  I  have 
never  in  my  life  written  in  a  first  draft  more 
than  a  thousand  words  a  day,  and  I  have  fre 
quently  thrown  away  a  day's  work  when  I 
came  to  look  it  over.  I  have  refused  enough 
offers  for  short  stories,  serials,  and  book  rights, 
to  have  kept  half  a  dozen  typewriters  busy,  and 
my  output  has  not  been  large,  considering  that 
writing  has  been,  for  nearly  ten  years,  my  only 
occupation.  I  can  say,  with  my  hand  on  my 
heart,  that  I  have  written  for  my  own  pleasure 
first  and  last,  and  that  those  of  my  books  that 
have  enjoyed  the  greatest  popularity  were 
written  really  in  a  spirit  of  play,  without  any 
215 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

illusions  as  to  their  importance  or  their  quick 
and  final  passing  into  the  void. 

When  I  had  finished  my  story,  I  still  had  a 
few  incidents  and  scenes  in  my  ink-pot;  but  I 
could  not  for  the  life  of  me  get  the  curtain  up, 
once  it  was  down.  My  little  drama  had  put  it 
self  together  as  tight  as  wax,  and  even  when  I 
had  written  an  additional  incident  that  pleased 
me  particularly,  I  could  find  no  place  to  thrust 
it  in.  I  was  interested  chiefly  in  amusing  my 
self,  and  I  never  troubled  myself  in  the  least  as 
to  whether  anyone  else  would  care  for  the  story. 
I  was  astonished  by  its  sale,  which  exceeded  a 
quarter  of  a  million  copies  in  this  country;  it 
has  been  translated  into  French,  Italian,  Ger 
man,  Danish,  Swedish,  and  Norwegian.  I  have 
heard  of  it  all  the  way  from  Tokyo  to  Teheran. 
It  was  dramatized,  and  an  actor  of  distinction 
appeared  In  the  stage  version;  and  stock  com 
panies  have  lately  presented  the  play  in  Boston 
and  San  Francisco.  It  was  subsequently  serial 
ized  by  newspapers,  and  later  appeared  in 
"patent"  supplements.  The  title  was  para 
phrased  by  advertisers,  several  of  whom  con 
tinue  to  pay  me  this  flattering  tribute. 
216 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

I  have  speculated  a  good  deal  as  to  the  suc 
cess  of  this  book.  The  title  had,  no  doubt, 
much  to  do  with  it;  clever  advertising  helped  it 
further;  the  cover  was  a  lure  to  the  eye.  The 
name  of  a  popular  illustrator  may  have  helped, 
but  it  is  certain  that  his  pictures  did  not!  I 
think  I  am  safe  in  saying  that  the  book  received 
no  helpful  reviews  in  any  newspapers  of  the 
first  class,  and  I  may  add  that  I  am  skeptical  as 
to  the  value  of  favorable  notices  in  stimulating 
the  sale  of  such  books.  Serious  novels  are  un 
doubtedly  helped  by  favorable  reviews;  stories 
of  the  kind  I  describe  depend  primarily  upon 
persistent  and  ingenious  advertising,  in  which 
a  single  striking  line  from  the  "Gem  City 
Evening  Gazette"  is  just  as  valuable  as  the 
opinion  of  the  most  scholarly  review.  Nor  am  I 
unmindful  of  the  publisher's  labors  and  risks,  — 
the  courage,  confidence,  and  genius  essential  to 
a  successful  campaign  with  a  book  from  a  new 
hand,  with  no  prestige  of  established  reputa 
tion  to  command  instant  recognition.  The  self- 
selling  book  may  become  a  "best-seller";  it 
may  appear  mysteriously,  a  "dark  horse"  in 
the  eternal  battle  of  the  books ;  but  miracles  are 
217 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

as  rare  in  the  book  trade  as  in  other  lines  of 
commerce.  The  man  behind  the  counter  is 
another  important  factor.  The  retail  dealer, 
when  he  finds  the  publisher  supporting  him 
with  advertising,  can  do  much  to  prolong  a  sale. 
A  publisher  of  long  experience  in  promoting 
large  sales  has  told  me  that  advertising  is  valu 
able  chiefly  for  its  moral  effect  on  the  retailer, 
who,  feeling  that  the  publisher  is  strongly  back 
ing  a  book,  bends  his  own  energies  toward 
keeping  it  alive. 

It  would  be  absurd  for  me  to  pretend  that  the 
leap  from  a  mild  succes  d'estime  with  sales  of 
forty  and  fourteen  thousand,  to  a  delirious 
gallop  into  six  figures  is  not  without  its  effect  on 
an  author,  unless  he  be  much  less  human  than 
I  am.  Those  gentle  friends  who  had  intimated 
that  I  could  not  do  it  once,  were  equally  san 
guine  that  I  could  not  do  it  again.  The  tempta 
tion  to  try  a  second  throw  of  the  dice  after  a 
success  is  strong,  but  I  debated  long  whether 
I  should  try  my  hand  at  a  second  romance.  I 
resolved  finally  to  do  a  better  book  in  the  same 
kind,  and  with  even  more  labor  I  produced  a 
yarn  whose  title  —  and  the  gods  have  several 
218 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

times  favored  me  in  the  matter  of  titles  — 
adorned  the  best-selling  lists  for  an  even 
longer  period,  though  the  total  sales  aggregated 
less. 

The  second  romance  was,  I  think,  better  than 
the  first,  and  its  dramatic  situations  were  more 
picturesque.  The  reviews  averaged  better  in 
better  places,  and  may  have  aroused  the  preju 
dices  of  those  who  shun  books  that  are  counte 
nanced  or  praised  by  the  literary  "high  brows." 
It  sold  largely;  it  enjoyed  the  glory  and  the 
shame  of  a  "best-seller";  but  here,  I  pon 
dered,  was  the  time  to  quit.  Not  to  shock  my 
"audience,"  to  use  the  term  of  the  trade,  I 
resolved  to  try  for  more  solid  ground  by  paying 
more  attention  to  characterizations,  and  cut 
ting  down  the  allowance  of  blood  and  thunder. 
I  expected  to  lose  heavily  with  the  public,  and 
I  was  not  disappointed.  I  crept  into  the  best- 
selling  list,  but  my  sojourn  there  was  brief.  It 
is  manifest  that  people  who  like  shots  in  the 
dark  will  not  tamely  acquiesce  in  the  mild  plac 
ing  of  the  villain's  hand  upon  his  hip  pocket  on 
the  moon-washed  terrace.  The  difference  be 
tween  the  actual  shot  and  the  mere  menace,  I 
219 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

could,  from  personal  knowledge,  compute  in  the 
coin  of  the  Republic. 

When  your  name  on  the  bill-board  suggests 
battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death,  "hair 
breadth  'scapes,  i'  th'  imminent  deadly  breach," 
and  that  sort  of  thing,  you  need  not  be  cha 
grined  if,  once  inside,  the  eager  throng  resents 
bitterly  your  perfidy  in  offering  nothing  more 
blood-curdling  than  the  heroine's  demand  (the 
scene  being  set  for  five  o'clock  tea)  for  another 
lump  of  sugar.  You  may,  if  you  please,  leave 
Hamlet  out  of  his  own  play;  but  do  not,  on 
peril  of  your  fame,  cut  out  your  ghost,  or  ne 
glect  to  provide  some  one  to  stick  a  sword  into 
Polonius  behind  the  arras.  I  can  take  up  that 
particular  book  now  and  prove  to  any  fair- 
minded  man  how  prettily  I  could,  by  injecting 
a  little  paprika  into  my  villains,  have  quad 
rupled  its  sale. 

Having,  I  hope,  some  sense  of  humor,  I  re 
solved  to  bid  farewell  to  cloak  and  pistols  in  a 
farce-comedy,  which  should  be  a  take-off  on  my 
own  popular  performances.  Humor  being  some 
thing  that  no  one  should  tamper  with  who  is 
not  ready  for  the  gibbet,  I  was  not  surprised 
220 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

that  many  hasty  samplers  of  the  book  should 
entirely  miss  the  joke,  or  that  a  number  of  joy 
less  critics  should  have  dismissed  it  hastily  as 
merely  another  machine-made  romance  written 
for  boarding-school  girls  and  the  weary  com 
mercial  traveler  yawning  in  the  smoking-car. 
Yet  this  book  also  has  been  a  "best-seller"!  I 
have  seen  it,  within  a  few  weeks,  prominently 
displayed  in  bookshop  windows  in  half  a  dozen 
cities. 

It  was,  I  think,  Mr.  Clyde  Fitch  who  first 
voiced  the  complaint  that  our  drama  is  seri 
ously  affected  by  the  demand  of  "the  tired 
business  man"  to  be  amused  at  the  theatre. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  fiction.  A  very  con 
siderable  number  of  our  toiling  millions  sit 
down  wearily  at  night,  and  if  the  evening  paper 
does  not  fully  satisfy  or  social  diversion  offer,  a 
story  that  will  hold  the  attention  without  too 
great  a  tax  upon  the  mind  is  welcomed.  I 
should  be  happy  to  think  that  our  ninety  mil 
lions  trim  the  lamp  every  evening  with  zest 
for  "improving"  literature;  but  the  tired  brain 
follows  the  line  of  least  resistance,  which  un 
fortunately  does  not  lead  to  alcoves  where  the 

221 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

one  hundred  best  books  wear  their  purple  in 
solemn  pomp.  Even  in  my  present  mood  of 
contrition,  I  am  not  sneering  at  that  consider 
able  body  of  my  countrymen  who  have  laid 
one  dollar  and  eighteen  cents  upon  the  counter 
and  borne  home  my  little  fictions.  They  took 
grave  chances  of  my  boring  them;  and  when 
they  rapped  a  second  time  on  the  counter  and 
murmured  another  of  my  titles,  they  were  ex 
pressing  a  confidence  in  me  which  I  strove 
hard  never  to  betray. 

No  one  will,  I  am  sure,  deny  me  the  satisfac 
tion  I  have  in  the  reflection  that  I  put  a  good 
deal  of  sincere  work  into  those  stories,  —  for 
they  are  stories,  not  novels,  and  were  written 
frankly  to  entertain;  that  they  are  not  wholly 
ill-written;  that  they  contain  pages  that  are  not 
without  their  grace;  or  that  there  is  nothing 
prurient  or  morbid  in  any  of  them.  And  no 
matter  how  jejune  stories  of  the  popular  ro 
mantic  type  may  be,  —  a  fact,  O  haughty 
critic,  of  which  I  am  well  aware,  —  I  take  some 
satisfaction  as  a  good  American  in  the  know 
ledge  that,  in  spite  of  their  worthlessness  as 
literature,  they  are  essentially  clean.  The 

222 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

heroes  may  be  too  handsome,  and  too  sure  of 
themselves;  the  heroines  too  adorable  in  their 
sweet  distress,  as  they  wave  the  white  handker 
chief  from  the  grated  window  of  the  ivied  tower, 
—  but  their  adventures  are,  in  the  very  nature 
of  things,  in  usum  Delphini. 

Some  of  my  friends  of  the  writing  guild  boast 
that  they  never  read  criticisms  of  their  work.  I 
have  read  and  filed  all  the  notices  of  my  stories 
that  bore  any  marks  of  honesty  or  intelligence. 
Having  served  my  own  day  as  reviewer  for  a 
newspaper,  I  know  the  dreary  drudgery  of  such 
work.  I  recall,  with  shame,  having  averaged  a 
dozen  books  an  afternoon;  and  some  of  my 
critics  have  clearly  averaged  two  dozen,  with 
my  poor  candidates  for  oblivion  at  the  bottom 
of  the  heap !  Much  American  criticism  is  stupid 
or  ignorant;  but  the  most  depressing,  from  my 
standpoint,  is  the  flippant  sort  of  thing  which 
many  newspapers  print  habitually.  The  stage, 
also,  suffers  like  treatment,  even  in  some  of  the 
more  reputable  metropolitan  journals.  Unless 
your  book  affords  a  text  for  a  cynical  newspaper 
"story,"  it  is  quite  likely  to  be  ignored. 

I  cannot  imagine  that  any  writer  who  takes 
223 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

his  calling  seriously  ever  resents  a  sincere,  intel 
ligent,  adverse  notice.  I  have  never  written  a 
book  in  less  than  a  year,  devoting  all  my  time  to 
it;  and  I  resent  being  dismissed  in  a  line,  and 
called  a  writer  of  drivel,  by  some  one  who  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  say  why.  A  newspaper 
which  is  particularly  jealous  of  its  good  name 
once  pointed  out  with  elaborate  care  that  an 
incident,  described  in  one  of  my  stories  as  oc 
curring  in  broad  daylight,  could  not  have  been 
observed  in  moonlight  by  one  of  the  characters 
at  the  distance  I  had  indicated.  The  same  re 
viewer  transferred  the  scene  of  this  story  half 
way  across  the  continent,  in  order  to  make  an 
other  point  against  its  plausibility.  If  the  aim 
of  criticism  be  to  aid  the  public  in  its  choice  of 
books,  then  the  press  should  deal  fairly  with 
both  author  and  public.  And  if  the  critics  wish 
to  point  out  to  authors  their  failures  and  weak 
nesses,  then  it  should  be  done  in  a  spirit  of 
justice.  The  best-selling  of  my  books  caused  a 
number  of  critics  to  remark  that  it  had  clearly 
been  inspired  by  a  number  of  old  romances  — 
which  I  had  not  only  never  read,  but  of  several 
of  them  I  had  never  even  heard. 
224 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

A  Boston  newspaper  which  I  greatly  admire 
once  published  an  editorial  in  which  I  was  pillo 
ried  as  a  type  of  writer  who  basely  commer 
cializes  his  talent.  It  was  a  cruel  stab;  for, 
unlike  my  heroes,  I  do  not  wear  a  mail-shirt 
under  my  dress-coat.  Once,  wandering  into  a 
church  in  my  own  city,  at  a  time  when  a  drama 
tized  version  of  one  of  my  stories  was  'offered 
at  a  local  theatre,  I  listened  to  a  sermon  that 
dealt  in  the  harshest  terms  with  such  fiction 
and  drama. 

Extravagant  or  ignorant  praise  is,  to  most  of 
us,  as  disheartening  as  stupid  and  unjust  crit 
icism.  The  common  practice  of  invoking  great 
names  to  praise  some  new  arrival  at  the  portal 
of  fame  cannot  fail  to  depress  the  subject  of  it. 
When  my  first  venture  in  fiction  was  flatter 
ingly  spoken  of  by  a  journal  which  takes  its 
criticisms  seriously  as  evidencing  the  qualities 
that  distinguish  Mr.  Howells,  I  shuddered  at 
the  hideous  injustice  to  a  gentleman  for  whom 
I  have  the  greatest  love  and  reverence;  and 
when,  in  my  subsequent  experiments,  a  critic 
somewhere  gravely  (it  seemed,  at  least,  to  be  in 
a  spirit  of  sobriety!)  asked  whether  a  fold  of 
225 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

Stevenson's  mantle  had  not  wrapped  itself 
about  me,  the  awfulness  of  the  thing  made  me 
ill,  and  I  fled  from  felicity  until  my  publisher 
had  dropped  the  heart-breaking  phrase  from 
his  advertisements.  For  I  may  be  the  worst 
living  author,  and  at  times  I  am  convinced  of 
it;  but  I  hope  I  am  not  an  immitigable  and 
irreclaimable  ass. 

American  book  reviewers,  I  am  convinced 
from  a  study  of  my  returns  from  the  clipping 
bureaus  for  ten  years,  dealing  with  my  offerings 
in  two  kinds  of  fiction,  are  a  solid  phalanx  of 
realists  where  they  are  anything  at  all.  This 
attitude  is  due,  I  imagine,  to  the  fact  that  jour 
nalism  deals,  or  is  supposed  to  deal,  with  facts. 
Realism  is  certainly  more  favorably  received 
than  romance.  I  cheerfully  subscribe  to  the 
doctrine  that  fiction  that  lays  strong  hands 
upon  aspects  of  life  as  we  are  living  it  is  a  nobler 
achievement  than  tales  that  provide  merely  an 
evening's  entertainment.  Mr.  James  has,  how 
ever,  simplified  this  whole  question.  He  says, 
"The  only  classification  of  the  novel  that  I  can 
understand  is  into  that  which  has  life,  and  that 
which  has  it  not";  and  if  we  must  reduce  this 
226 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

matter  of  fiction  to  law,  his  dictum  might  well 
be  accepted  as  the  first  and  last  canon.  And 
in  this  connection  I  should  like  to  record  my 
increasing  admiration  for  all  that  Mr.  James 
has  written  of  novels  and  novelists.  In  one 
place  and  another  he  has  expressed  himself 
fully  and  confidently  on  fiction  as  a  depart 
ment  of  literature.  The  lecture  on  Balzac  that 
he  gave  in  this  country  a  few  years  ago  is  a 
masterly  and  authoritative  document  on  the 
novel  in  general.  His  "  Partial  Portraits  "  is  a 
rich  mine  of  ripe  observation  on  the  distin 
guishing  qualities  of  a  number  of  his  contem 
poraries,  and  the  same  volume  contains  a 
suggestive  and  stimulating  essay  on  fiction  as 
an  art.  With  these  in  mind  it  seems  to  me  a 
matter  for  tears  that  Mr.  James,  with  his 
splendid  equipment  and  beautiful  genius, 
should  have  devoted  himself  so  sedulously,  in 
his  own  performances  in  fiction,  to  the  con 
templation  of  cramped  foreign  vistas  and 
exotic  types,  when  all  this  wide,  surging, 
eager,  laboring  America  lay  ready  to  his  hand. 
I  will  say  of  myself  that  I  value  style  be 
yond  most  things;  and  that  if  I  could  command 
227 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

it,  I  should  be  glad  to  write  for  so  small  an 
audience,  the  "fit  though  few,"  that  the  best- 
selling  lists  should  never  know  me  again;  for 
with  style  go  many  of  the  requisites  of  great 
fiction,  —  fineness  and  sureness  of  feeling,  and  a 
power  over  language  by  which  characters  cease 
to  be  bobbing  marionettes  and  become  veritable 
beings,  no  matter  whether  they  are  Beatrix 
Esmonds,  or  strutting  D'Artagnans,  or  rascally 
Bartley  Hubbards,  or  luckless  Lily  Barts.  To 
toss  a  ball  into  the  air,  and  keep  it  there,  as 
Stevenson  did  so  charmingly  in  such  pieces  as 
"Providence  and  the  Guitar,"  —  this  is  a 
respectable  achievement;  to  mount  Roy  Rich 
mond  as  an  equestrian  statue,  —  that,  too,  is 
something  we  would  not  have  had  Mr.  Mere 
dith  leave  undone.  Mr.  Rassendyll,  an  English 
gentleman  playing  at  being  king,  thrills  the 
surviving  drop  of  medievalism  that  is  in  all  of 
us.  "The  tired  business  man"  yields  himself  to 
the  belief  that  the  staccato  of  hoofs  on  the 
asphalt  street,  which  steals  in  to  him  faintly  at 
his  fireside,  is  really  an  accompaniment  to  the 
hero's  mad  ride  to  save  the  king.  Ah,  the  joy 
in  kings  dies  hard  in  us ! 
228 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

Given  a  sprightly  tale  with  a  lost  message  to 
recover,  throw  in  a  fight  on  the  stair,  scatter 
here  and  there  pretty  dialogues  between  the 
lover  and  the  princess  he  serves,  and  we  are  all, 
as  we  breathlessly  follow,  the  rankest  royalists. 
Tales  of  real  Americans,  kodaked  "in  the  sun's 
hot  eye,"  much  as  they  refresh  me,  —  I  speak 
of  myself  now,  not  as  a  writer  or  critic,  but  as 
the  man  in  the  street,  —  never  so  completely 
detach  the  weary  spirit  from  mundane  things 
as  tales  of  events  that  never  were  on  sea  or  land. 
Why  should  I  read  of  Silas  Lapham  to-night, 
when  only  an  hour  ago  I  was  his  competitor  in 
the  mineral-paint  business?  The  greatest  fic 
tion  must  be  a  criticism  of  life;  but  there  are 
times  when  we  crave  forgetfulness,  and  lift  our 
eyes  trustfully  to  the  flag  of  Zenda. 

But  the  creator  of  Zenda,  it  is  whispered,  is 
not  an  author  of  the  first  or  even  of  the  second 
rank,  and  the  adventure  story,  at  its  best,  is 
only  for  the  second  table.  I  am  quite  aware  of 
this.  But  pause  a  moment,  O  cheerless  one! 
Surely  Homer  is  respectable;  and  the  Iliad,  the 
most  strenuous,  the  most  glorious  and  sublime 
of  fictions,  with  the  very  gods  drawn  into  the 

229 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

moving  scenes,  has,  by  reason  of  its  tremendous 
energy  and  its  tumultuous  drama,  not  less  than 
for  its  majesty  as  literature,  established  its 
right  to  be  called  the  longest-selling  fiction  of 
the  ages. 

All  the  world  loves  a  story;  the  regret  is  that 
the  great  novelists  —  great  in  penetration  and 
sincerity  and  style  —  do  not  always  have  the 
story-telling  knack.  Mr.  Marion  Crawford 
was,  I  should  say,  a  far  better  story-teller  than 
Mr.  James  or  Mr.  Howells ;  but  I  should  by  no 
means  call  him  a  better  novelist.  A  lady  of  my 
acquaintance  makes  a  point  of  bestowing  copies 
of  Mr.  Meredith's  novels  upon  young  working- 
women  whom  she  seeks  to  uplift.  I  am  myself 
the  most  ardent  of  Meredithians,  and  yet  I 
must  confess  to  a  lack  of  sympathy  with  this 
lady's  high  purpose.  I  will  not  press  the  point, 
but  a  tired  working-girl  would,  I  think,  be  much 
happier  with  one  of  my  own  beribboned  con 
fections  than  with  even  Diana  the  delectable. 

Pleasant  it  is,  I  must  confess,  to  hear  your 
wares  cried  by  the  train-boy;  to  bend  a  sympa 
thetic  ear  to  his  recital  of  your  merits,  as  he 
appraises  them;  and  to  watch  him  beguile  your 
230 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

fellow  travelers  with  the  promise  of  felicity 
contained  between  the  covers  of  the  book  which 
you  yourself  have  devised,  pondered,  and  com 
mitted  to  paper.  The  train-boy's  ideas  of  the 
essentials  of  entertaining  fiction  are  radically 
unacademic,  but  he  is  apt  in  hitting  off  the 
commercial  requirements.  A  good  book,  one  of 
the  guild  told  me,  should  always  begin  with 
"talking."  He  was  particularly  contemptuous 
of  novels  that  open  upon  landscape  and  moon 
light, —  these,  in  the  bright  lexicon  of  his 
youthful  experience,  are  well-nigh  unsalable. 
And  he  was  equally  scornful  of  the  unhappy 
ending.  The  sale  of  a  book  that  did  not,  as  he 
put  it,  "come  out  right,"  that  is,  with  the 
merry  jingle  of  wedding-bells,  was  no  less  than  a 
fraud  upon  the  purchaser.  On  one  well-remem 
bered  occasion  my  vanity  was  gorged  by  the 
sight  of  many  copies  of  my  latest  offering  in 
the  hands  of  my  fellow  travelers,  as  I  sped 
from  Washington  to  New  York.  A  poster, 
announcing  my  new  tale,  greeted  me  at  the 
station  as  I  took  flight;  four  copies  of  my  book 
were  within  comfortable  range  of  my  eye  in 
the  chair-car.  Before  the  train  started,  I  was 
231 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

given  every  opportunity  to  add  my  own  book 
to  my  impedimenta. 

The  sensation  awakened  by  the  sight  of  utter 
strangers  taking  up  your  story,  tasting  it  wa 
rily,  clinging  to  it  if  it  be  to  their  liking,  or  drop 
ping  it  wearily  or  contemptuously  if  it  fail  to 
please,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  of  the  ex 
periences  of  authorship.  On  the  journey  men 
tioned,  one  man  slept  sweetly  through  what  I 
judged  to  be  the  most  intense  passage  in  the 
book;  others  paid  me  the  tribute  of  absorbed 
attention.  On  the  ferry-boat  at  Jersey  City, 
several  copies  of  the  book  were  interposed  be 
tween  seemingly  enchanted  readers  and  the 
towers  and  spires  of  the  metropolis.  No  one, 
I  am  sure/will  deny  to  such  a  poor  worm  as  I 
the  petty  joys  of  popular  recognition.  To  see 
one's  tale  on  many  counters,  to  hear  one's 
name  and  titles  recited  on  boats  and  trains, 
to  find  in  mid-ocean  that  your  works  go  with 
you  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  to  see  the  familiar 
cover  smiling  welcome  on  the  table  of  an  ob 
scure  foreign  inn,  —  surely  the  most  grudging 
critic  would  not  deprive  a  writer  of  these  re 
wards  and  delights. 

232 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

There  is  also  that  considerable  army  of  read 
ers  who  write  to  an  author  in  various  keys  of 
condemnation  or  praise.  I  have  found  my  cor 
respondence  considerably  augmented  by  the 
large  sales  of  a  book.  There  are  persons  who 
rejoice  to  hold  before  your  eyes  your  inconsist- 
ences;  or  who  test  you,  to  your  detriment,  in 
the  relentless  scale  of  fact.  Some  one  in  the 
Connecticut  hills  once  criticized  severely  my 
use  of  "that"  and  "which,"  —  a  case  where  an 
effort  at  precision  was  the  offense,  —  and  I  was 
involved,  before  I  knaw  it,  in  a  long  corre 
spondence.  I  have  several  times  been  taken 
severely  to  task  by  foes  of  tobacco  for  permit 
ting  my  characters  to  smoke.  Wine,  I  have 
found,  should  be  administered  to  one's  charac 
ters  sparingly,  and  one's  hero  must  never  pro 
duce  a  flask  except  for  restorative  uses, — 
after,  let  us  say,  a  wild  gallop,  by  night,  in  the 
teeth  of  a  storm  to  relieve  a  beleaguered  citadel, 
or  when  the  heroine  has  been  rescued  at  great 
peril  from  the  clutch  of  the  multitudinous  sea. 
Those  strange  spirits  who  pour  out  their  souls 
in  anonymous  letters  have  not  ignored  me.  I 
salute  them  with  much  courtesy,  and  wish  them 

233 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

well  of  the  gods.  Young  ladies  whose  names  I 
have  inadvertently  applied  to  my  heroines 
have  usually  dealt  with  me  in  agreeable  fashion. 
The  impression  that  authors  have  an  unlimited 
supply  of  their  own  wares  to  give  away  is  re 
sponsible  for  the  importunity  of  managers  of 
church  fairs,  philanthropic  institutions,  and  the 
like,  who  assail  one  cheerfully  through  the 
mails.  Before  autograph-hunters  I  have  always 
been  humble;  I  have  felt  myself  honored  by 
their  attentions;  and  in  spite  of  their  dread 
phrase,  "Thanking  you  in  advance,"  —  which 
might  be  the  shibboleth  of  their  fraternity,  from 
its  prevalence,  —  I  greet  them  joyfully,  and 
never  filch  their  stamps. 

Now,  after  all,  could  anything  be  less  harmful 
than  my  tales  ?  The  casual  meeting  of  my  hero 
and  heroine  in  the  first  chapter  has  always  been 
marked  by  the  gravest  circumspection.  My 
melodrama  has  never  been  offensively  gory,  — 
in  fact,  I  have  been  ridiculed  for  my  bloodless 
combats.  My  villains  have  been  the  sort  that 
anyone  with  any  kind  of  decent  bringing-up 
would  hiss.  A  girl  in  white,  walking  beside  a 
lake,  with  a  blue  parasol  swinging  back  of  her 

234 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

head,  need  offend  no  one.  That  the  young  man 
emerging  from  the  neighboring  wood  should 
not  recognize  her  at  once  as  the  young  woman 
ordained  in  his  grandfather's  will  as  the  person 
he  must  marry  to  secure  the  estate,  seems 
utterly  banal,  I  confess;  but  it  is  the  business  of 
romance  to  maintain  illusions.  Realism,  with 
the  same  agreed  state  of  facts,  recognizes  the 
girl  immediately  —  and  spoils  the  story.  Or  I 
might  put  it  thus:  in  realism,  much  or  all  is 
obvious  in  the  first  act;  in  romance,  nothing  is 
quite  clear  until  the  third.  This  is  why  romance 
is  more  popular  than  realism,  for  we  are  all 
children  and  want  to  be  surprised.  Why  vil 
lains  should  always  be  so  stupid,  and  why  hero 
ines  should  so  perversely  misunderstand  the 
noble  motives  of  heroes,  are  questions  I  cannot 
answer.  Likewise  before  dear  old  Mistaken 
Identity  —  the  most  venerable  impostor  in  the 
novelist's  cabinet  —  I  stand  dumbly  grateful. 
On  the  stage,  where  a  plot  is  most  severely 
tested,  but  where  the  audience  must,  we  are 
told,  always  be  in  the  secret,  we  see  constantly 
how  flimsy  a  mask  the  true  prince  need  wear. 
And  the  reason  for  this  lies  in  the  primal  and  — 

235 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

let  us  hope  —  eternal  childlikeness  of  the  race. 
The  Zeitgeist  will  not  grind  us  underfoot  so  long 
as  we  are  capable  of  joy  in  make-believe,  and 
can  renew  our  youth  in  the  frolics  of  Peter 
Pan. 

You,  sir,  who  re-read  "The  Newcomes" 
every  year,  and  you,  madam,  reverently  dust 
ing  your  Jane  Austen,  —  I  am  sadder  than  you 
can  be  that  my  talent  is  so  slender;  but  is  it  not 
a  fact  that  you  have  watched  me  at  my  little 
tricks  on  the  mimic  stage,  and  been  just  a  little 
astonished  when  the  sparrow,  and  not  the  dove, 
emerged  from  the  handkerchief?  But  you  pre 
fer  the  old  writers ;  and  so,  dear  friends,  do  I ! 

Having,  as  I  have  confessed,  deliberately 
tried  my  hand  at  romance  merely  to  see  whether 
I  could  swim  the  moat  under  a  cloud  of  the 
enemy's  arrows,  and  to  gain  experience  in  the 
mechanism  of  story-writing,  I  now  declare 
(though  with  no  illusion  as  to  the  importance 
of  the  statement)  that  I  have  hung  my  sword 
over  the  fireplace;  that  I  shall  not  again  thun 
der  upon  the  tavern  door  at  midnight;  that  not 
much  fine  gold  could  tempt  me  to  seek,  by 
means  however  praiseworthy,  to  bring  that  girl 
236 


Confessions  of  a  Best-Seller 

with  the  blue  parasol  to  a  proper  appreciation 
of  the  young  gentleman  with  the  suit-case,  who 
even  now  is  pursuing  her  through  the  wood  to 
restore  her  lost  handkerchief.  It  has  been  pleas 
ant  to  follow  the  bright  guidon  of  romance; 
even  now,  from  the  window  of  the  tall  office- 
building  in  which  I  close  these  reflections,  I 
can  hear  the  bugles  blowing  and  look  upon 

"  Strangest  skies  and  unbeholden  seas." 

But  I  feel  reasonably  safe  from  temptation. 
Little  that  men  do  is,  I  hope,  alien  to  me;  and 
the  life  that  surges  round  me,  and  whose  sounds 
rise  from  the  asphalt  below,  or  the  hurrying 
feet  on  the  tiles  in  my  own  corridor  of  this  steel- 
boned  tower,  —  the  faint  tinkle  of  telephones, 
the  click  of  elevator  doors,  —  these  things,  and 
the  things  they  stand  for,  speak  with  deep  and 
thrilling  eloquence;  and  he  who  would  serve 
best  the  literature  of  his  time  and  country  will 
not  ignore  them. 

THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .   S    .  A 


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